


Obsidian Dragons

by shotgunsinlace



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Spies & Secret Agents, Anal Sex, Cannibalism, Canon-Typical Violence, Dark Will Graham, Dry Humping, Explicit Sexual Content, Hallucinations, M/M, Masturbation, Minor Alana Bloom/Hannibal Lecter, PTSD, Rimming, Science Fiction, Sexual Fantasy, Slow Burn, Torture, Unresolved Sexual Tension, Will Graham Has Encephalitis, basically Hannibal but instead of the FBI it's the CIA
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-24
Updated: 2015-08-26
Packaged: 2018-03-25 11:33:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 17
Words: 81,305
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3808843
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shotgunsinlace/pseuds/shotgunsinlace
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Extravagant outfits and luxurious cars are some of the things spies avoid at all costs, along with liars and the fantasy of an average, ordinary life. Will Graham’s reinstatement as a field operative demolishes the carefully fabricated castle walls his therapist helped him build brick by brick, until the only thing left to do is fight to die another day.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> I only have _Kingsman: The Secret Service_ and the _Spectre_ teaser trailer to blame for this.

_You’re just the man for the job, Graham,_ Crawford had said. _You’re like a ghost. People don’t see you, they don’t hear you, unless you want to be seen or heard._ He had believed him. _I want a good, clean job. In and out. Minimum interaction._

If there is anything Will can be sure of, it’s of his level of confidence in regards to his skills. He had accepted the job because he had believed he could take it, and he is taking it, so to speak, albeit rather roughly.

A quick status check tells him that the last bullet only grazed his right knee, taking a chunk of cloth with it. There’s plenty of blood to show for it, and he can’t feel a damn thing with the adrenaline pumping through him. Busted lip, some kind of head injury judging by the blood that keeps getting in his eyes — he’s a mess and he is not happy about it.

The deafening ring of a rain of bullets has him burrowing into the tiny space in the wall, waiting for the opportunity to make a run for it. He’s out of ammo, his wrist won’t work correctly, and the idea of close quarter combat with guard dogs armed to the teeth isn’t a very welcome one.

 _“Graham? Graham, can you hear me?”_ The voice crackles through his headset, nearly indistinguishable against the assault the concrete around him is taking. _“You need to get out of the building now!”_

All he needs is the tiniest opening. A moment of hesitation that he can take advantage of, get them to stop shooting long enough for him to weasel himself out. If he’s right, that moment is mere seconds away.

Will braces himself, Beretta poised to defend him when the time comes. That’s when the first of the bombs goes off.

He doesn’t waste time looking, knowing that the men on his heels have been tripped up, but it’s only a limited window. Once they hear the squeak of his sneakers against the linoleum floors, they open fire. Before anything can so much graze him, he’s already taking a corner and darting down a narrow hallway.

A chain reaction of explosions echo in the back of his head, each one serving as a new burst of energy that propels him forward. The building won’t hold up much longer and he’s taken the long way out due to lack of options that force him to improvise.

Rather than run down, Will runs up.

The stairs slow him, he can tell because the crowd of shouting voices is closing in. He takes them two by two, swings and rides the momentum towards the next flight and doesn’t look back.

Harsh vibrations throw off his balance, slamming him sideways into a crumbling wall. Will shoves himself upright and keeps going, the voices sounding further down.

In the distance is a window, just three flights of stairs ahead. He can see the glaring sun flooding the previously dark corridors with golden light and Will can only see freedom from a grizzly death.

The concrete beneath him begins to waver.

The building sways and groans. Slabs of concrete fall from the ceiling, adding to the list of things he needs to avoid getting pummeled by. The more the merrier, he likes to think, keeping his concentration to the fore as he runs for the paneless window.

Will is three steps away when the stairs give out.

He jumps up.

He loses the gun in favor of clinging to the window’s ledge, scrambling up with difficulty and crouching to steady himself for a moment’s breath that is cut short. Billows of dust are wafting through the air, accompanied by the putrid stench of burning rubber and sewer water. The building is collapsing and he has no other choice than to jump down.

With no landing point in sight, Will wings it.

If he dies here his name will most likely be added to the Wall at Langley. With no next of kin to receive his medal of honor, his ‘brave accomplishments’ will be printed out on a glossy paper, stamped, and filed to never be seen again.

It would be an unremarkable yet fitting end.

***

The sound of a gunshot is what wakes him, and the searing pain is what makes him wish he was still unconscious.

A blurry assessment reveals that he’s shirtless, barefoot, strapped to a metal chair, bleeding, and that his shoulder now has a nice bullet lodged inside it. His left forearm is numb, and he takes a guess that his tracking chip has been removed. The absence of static in his ear lets him know that the com is gone, too.

“The password.”

Will angles his head upward the best he can, ignoring the cramp on his neck and shoulder. “I don’t think my computer has anything interesting in it.” The remark earns him a punch.

“I don’t think you’re in the position to be making jokes, Mr. Graham.” The woman who speaks looks far too old to be involved in any sort of shady activity. By all means, she should be crocheting him a sweater.

“Death brings out the comic in all of us, lady.”

“That didn’t seem to be the case with your partner,” she says, stiffly angling her head to the side to gesture at the man slumped on the floor. “Mr. Hobbs found nothing funny about the idea of cutting out his innards and letting him bleed to death. That was, after we wedged wooden chips under his toenails.”

Will looks at her, uncaring of the white noise and absence of guilt in the back of his head. “Hobbs doesn’t have a funny bone in him. Didn’t have. Sorry.”

The woman is incensed, her beady eyes appearing tinier as she squints. “He said his daughter will never forgive him if he doesn’t return home. Does that amuse you, Mr. Graham?”

He doesn’t answer.

“Does the thought of us knocking on Mr. Hobbs’ door amuse you even a little? We have its location.” She stands like an officer, with her hands behind her back and high heels wide apart. “Abigail Hobbs is her name, if I’m not mistaking. I rarely do make mistakes.”

The world is blurry around the edges, and Will fears that there will be no waking up if he passes out again. They’ll either shoot him, or leave him to bleed out second after agonizing second.

“Give us the password and no harm will come to the girl,” she says. “You can at least claim a moral high ground by saying that you did it for her. Save her, save millions who are unnecessarily butchered by your people. It’s a win-win scenario.”

Will chuckles. It’s so absurd that it bubbles up to a laugh, a near hysterical one that jams itself in his throat and makes him choke on both blood and saliva. “The god complex is strong with both of us, apparently. Fuck you.”

Another punch, this time with a diamond studded ring.

“You’re testing my patience, boy. But I can do this all day if I have to.”

The single floodlight overhead flickers and sways, casting warped shadows along the walls and Will wonders how far underground he is. He can almost hear traffic, maybe workers somewhere off. Either of which could serve as a blessing or a curse: close enough to hear, too loud to be heard.

“If you’re cutting anything off, please start with my toes,” he says, licking his lips that crack and sting. “I like to fish. It’d be difficult to make lures or hold a rod without fingers.”

The woman steps closer, raking her long nails across his scalp. Had he longer hair, she would have pulled hard enough to force him to blink away tears. 

“Listen here, you little prick.” Her other hand comes up to grab his chin and angle his head so that he’s paying close attention. “You’re not going to die, I’ll make sure you don’t, but I can make it so you wish you were dead. Do you understand the implications of what I’m saying?” Nails dig into the bruised skin of his face. “Yes? Good.”

No, he won’t die, but he’s certainly not rolling over and taking it dry.

With the fingers of his left hand clutching the thumb of his right, Will dislocates it with just an intake of breath as a tell-tale sign. 

He moves quickly, using his now free hand to wrap around the woman’s throat and squeeze despite the self-inflicted injury. Her neck is slender but she proves stronger, retaliating by digging her nails deep enough to draw blood.

Will pivots the chair until it goes off balance, keeping his hold as well as he can as to take her with him when he falls.

He’s fast, but she has the advantage.

Her knife is out before they hit the ground and she’s ready to slice his face, but the landing has his full weight on top of her and he tries his hardest to keep her pinned.

His elbow smashing her sternum makes her freeze in their squabble, a myriad of coughs and wheezes granting him the opportunity to wrestle the blade from her.

Flipping onto his back, Will cuts his ankles free and scrambles to his feet. He kicks off one of the chair’s rusted legs, casts the rest of it aside and wields the piece like a second weapon. 

They’re alone at the moment, but someone is bound to have heard that.

The woman tries to crawl onto her knees.

“Don’t,” Will snaps, speaking with renewed strength. His control is wavering, and the slightest trigger will set him off. “Stay on the floor.”

The woman sits, agitatedly fixing her straight hair so that it falls neatly over the white satin of her blouse. “Like hell I’m letting you kill me while I’m on the floor.”

“No one has to die.”

A burst of laughter. “Rich, coming from Langley’s lap dog.” She stands up, and Will commends her for being able to do so with those heels. From within her sleeve she draws another knife, this one longer, blade jagged like shark teeth. “Only one of us is getting out of here alive.”

What decides who is the faint whistle of a silencer.

Will watches the woman hit the ground, eyes wide and glossy with shock as she gazes up at him.

Time picks up speed and he watches, detached, as the underground chamber becomes flooded with people and noise. People who are rushing to him, _allies_ , asking questions he can’t fully process as the world begins to wind down.

The pain in his shoulder and knee becomes more noticeable, as well as the stinging in the calves he hadn’t noticed. His back itches and burns, his knuckles no longer work as they’re supposed to and he’s left to wonder just how bad the damage truly is; how much had been done to him while he was under.

There are hands on him now, briefly examining and prying, making him uncomfortable

The woman is still twitching on the floor, a blink away from death, but she smiles. She smiles, and smiles, and smiles until removal protocols are commenced.

“Beware, Mr. Graham,” she says as two men lift her with hands underneath her arms. “Beware the Dragon.”

“Will.” The sound of his name, short and precise, pulls his scattered attention away from the half-dead woman being dragged out and towards the man offering him a phone. “Crawford.”

He takes the phone and presses it to his ear.

 _“Is it done?”_ Crawford asks, no preamble ever required.

“Hobbs is dead.”

 _“Is it_ done? _”_

“Yes,” Will answers, the blood in his mouth sour. “Expect my resignation letter in the morning.”

Ending the call, he returns the phone and gives the baffled agent a curt nod.

Will finds his denim jacket hanging from a nail on the way out and puts it on, popping the collar to fight against the bitter cold. Bruised and barefoot, he could care less for med evals or extraction protocols. The Agency can clean up after itself.

The only item left on his kill list is a plane ticket out of Shanghai at 0200 hours.


	2. The Introduction

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “A pleasure to finally meet you, Agent Graham,” Lecter says. “I’ve heard so much about you.”

Were he the type to be easily amused, Will would make a joke of how screwed he’d be if the DEA were to catch wind of his morning antics. Three hits before his first shower, one during the drive to Langley, and a full container of it in his messenger bag which he smuggles into his office at HQ. True, coffee isn’t by any means a narcotic, but it might as well be.

His caffeine intake is in no way healthy but hell if he can manage without it, which makes this morning a casual stroll through the darkest pits of Purgatory. In his rush to get out of the house and drive to headquarters to attend what Crawford had called a _Class A debriefing_ , he forgot his thermos on the kitchen counter, along with his case file.

In short, Will doesn’t have it in him to face whatever chaos must be brewing at his desk.

The lobby is as desolate as one would expect it to be on a Sunday morning, with just the underpaid security guard aimlessly flipping through a magazine where a secretary should be. It isn’t Will’s problem so he doesn’t reprimand him for it; neither does he acknowledge him.

He loses the coat once he steps into the interior lobby, this one more lively, and drapes it over his elbow while making a beeline for the elevator. 

Stepping inside, he’s greeted with a beaming smile and a black folder.

“Morning to you, too, Bev,” Will says, taking the file and leaning against a mirrored wall once the doors close. Crawford’s floor is already highlighted, which means they’re both headed to the same place.

“You’re gonna love this one.” Beverly Katz, one of their veteran field agents and about the only woman who hasn’t tried socializing with Will outside the office, is one of the few people he’d consider a friend. Despite her tendency to be outgoing and ever-present, she respects his need for privacy and personal space.

They’ve never worked an assignment together, but something tells him that fact is soon about to change.

Inside the folder are CV stills of people, the most of which he recognizes from previous busts and interrogations. Others are new, both young and old and raging wide in the spectrum of race and body type. The folder looks like someone got an entire bulk of assignments mixed up and hurriedly shoved them into a file to avoid being caught for the blunder.

“What am I supposed to be seeing?”

“A potential list of suspects and/or accomplices.”

Will waits for her to continue and closes the folder when she doesn’t. “Of?”

“We have no idea.” Her smile turns into a full out grin. “Our contact is waiting at Jack’s office. She refuses to say anything until you’re there.”

All sorts of red flags go up at that, leaving a sour taste in Will’s mouth. “I need coffee.” Maybe caffeine won’t be enough this time. “Spiked, preferably.”

“The coffee here’s shit and it’s only seven in the morning.”

Will pushes his glasses up the bridge of his nose when the elevator dings, signaling their arrival. “It’s eight at night somewhere.”

Jack Crawford’s office is unsurprisingly simple if one ignores the conference table in front of his desk. The far wall is a window to the snowcapped pine trees of the forest beyond the parking lot. The carpet is neither brown nor burgundy, just an ugly shade in between. There’s a projector, a desktop, and a mini fridge.

Will sees this place a lot less now that he’s a handler rather than a field agent, and it still triggers a deep sense of foreboding in him. Walking through the door feels like he won’t be allowed back out until he agrees to something he doesn’t want to agree to, a feeling that is solidified by the presence of both Jack and a woman Will’s never seen before.

Behind him, Beverly lightly touches his elbow before moving around him and sitting opposite of Jack on the conference table.

“Sit down, Will,” Jack says, just as severe and unpleasant regardless of the company.

Clenching his jaw and taking those last few stiff steps towards the chair offered to him, Will hangs his coat across the back and sits down. No introductions means that their contact is anonymous, even while sitting in the room with them.

“Mr. Graham,” the woman says by way of greeting, but doesn’t offer her hand. “A pleasure to put a face to the name.”

He doesn’t answer right away, keeping his eyes on the rim of his glasses as he gives her a general onceover. She exudes arrogance through her proper posture, wealth through the way she’s dressed — in satins and a suit worth more than Will’s entire education — and the stoic set of her face paints her as a liar of the professional kind.

A lawyer, maybe, or someone in the medical field. She wears a ring but one that holds no special meaning — no spouse, no hands-on practice — then she’s either a consultant or a therapist.

Will offers her a tight smile to let her know that her words were heard if nothing else.

“This is Dr. Du Maurier,” Jack says, leaning back in his seat and waving a hand in the woman’s direction. He looks like he could use a month’s worth of sleep. “She arrived at the lobby at five o’clock this morning demanding to speak to us about a very important matter that she so happens to have information of.”

Jack’s tone isn’t mocking, but it’s incredulous.

“What is it, Doctor?”

Du Maurier crosses her legs and considers Will pleasantly although curiously. “Special Agent Crawford is having a difficult time believing why I’m here,” she says, barely perceptively canting her head to the side. “But I can assure you that my information is legitimate and has been obtained through a reliable source.”

To Will’s left, Beverly types a transcript of the conversation.

“Jack Crawford is the general counsel, ma’am, not me. I don’t see why I have to be here for you to forward said information.”

“My client was specific in his wishes,” she says. “He believes this situation deserves the CIA’s top operatives and its utmost cooperation if it so wishes to succeed.”

“Your client?” Jack asks.

“Yes. He’s the one who wishes to remain anonymous.”

“And your client. He, uh, knows me?”

“Not personally, no, but you do have quite the reputation.”

“I doubt the reputation of a retired, paranoid hermit holds much ground when it comes to matters as important as…,” he vaguely waves his hand, “this.”

Du Maurier’s smile widens the fraction of an inch. “Field Operative William Graham, commended for his excellent service in counterintelligence which served in ending a twenty year drug and weapons ring in Shanghai, 1998. Demoted, by personal request, to Special Tactics Handler and has successfully closed a total of sixty four covert missions across Europe and Asia to date.”

Silence settles over the office like heavy fabric.

Beverly has stopped typing to look at Jack, her dark eyes like marbles in the gray lighting.

Will, on the other hand, feels like he could throw up.

Jack is looking at Du Maurier like she’s grown a second head. “That’s classified information.”

“Like I said.” Her voice reminds Will of a frozen lake: smooth and icy. “My sources are legitimate.”

“Alright,” Will says, thumbing at the rim of his glasses, unsure of what to do with his hands by this point. “Alright, we’re listening.”

“Good.” The doctor uncrosses her legs and reaches for the bag Will hadn’t noticed rests by her feet. From inside it she pulls a computer, and Jack looks like he’s about to chop off security’s heads. Perfectly manicured fingers open the laptop and go over the keys, leaving the office in a suspended state of silent confusion.

Will doesn’t like where the situation looks to be going. He’s dealt with people like Du Maurier before, all calm composure and an airy sense of privilege. They’re the type to call truce, then turn around and pull the trigger.

“Your hot lines have been open to a third party organization for the last six months, feeding them information regarding classified assignments in Switzerland, Hungary, Yemen, Egypt, Uganda, Siberia, and China; all of which are unnamed and omitted from Congress. A steady list of names and personal information of CIA and MI6 agents has been decrypted and is currently waiting to be distributed to agencies all around the world, Mr. Graham.” She tucks an errant lock of blonde hair behind her ear. “If I’m not mistaking, this would be the biggest security breach the Intelligence Agency has ever suffered.”

Jack’s hands land on the table with such force one would guess he’s made a dent on the wood.

“Please, don’t get up, Mr. Crawford,” she says, idly, as unmoving as stone. “Ms. Katz, I’d like a coffee. If you’d be so kind.”

“You stay right where you are,” Jack snaps, jabbing a finger at Beverly’s direction. “You get on that database and encrypt the very air it fucking breathes.”

“There is no need for that, Jack,” Du Maurier says, and the flippant tone in which she speaks the name makes his eyebrows shoot up. “My client was very specific when he requested Mr. Graham be the one to perform the lockout.”

The statement deposits itself in Will’s gut like a bag of stones, dragging him so far under the surface of the water he can no longer breathe.

Du Maurier regards him with a cool smile, one that holds an utmost amount of certainty that he can pull this off with no prior notice.

“You can tell your client that cyber counter-attacks aren’t my area of expertise,” he says, disguising the twitch of his fingers with the motion of adjusting his glasses.

“Time is ticking.”

“Ma’am—”

“Over one hundred agents, Mr. Graham. Plenty of them have partaken in questionable actions which they were forced to accomplish by the Agency.” Du Maurier presses her lips in a thin line, her eyes carrying the gravity of the situation at hand. “Over one hundred agents with families.”

The words strike a chord in him, forcing him to reasses the situation.

As an operative, the families of those working beneath him are of no importance. Not out of cruelty, but out of simplicity. Each one of them is trained to make the tougher call, to kill their humanity to get the job done or else there will be no home for other families to come home to. The need of the many outweighs the need of the few.

It’s an odd statement, one that clashes with everything the Agency — and by extension, himself — stands for.

Will decides that her initial judgement of him is wrong. He knows what he looks like, the kind of image he sells, and it’s one that often incites a sense of pity. His unique package of physical and social qualities alerts people to approach him like one would approach a wounded animal.

_A recluse who lives in the middle of nowhere with a pack of stray dogs. No parents, no spouse, no next of kin, no friends. Hands that often tremble, signs of sleep deprivation, a poor diet; obvious symptoms of PTSD. That aside, no matter how hard Jack Crawford pushes, he never breaks. He always stands up, brushes his knees, keeps walking, checks into work._

Able to see himself through her eyes, Du Maurier sees him as unstable and skittish, but a soldier. One that’s seen an entirely different kind of war. 

She’s attempting to appeal to his gentler side, to his facade rather than his mind, and Will wonders if she even meant those words. There is a familiar ruthlessness behind the poise she paints on, a ruthlessness Will often sees reflected in his bathroom mirror.

Sucking in a breath, he forces his hands to calm as he reaches over the table, taking the laptop and turning it towards him. He edges it close as he sits back, eyes the database that blinks in and out of a blank black page.

Dozens of browser windows continuously open, flashing images of people known and unknown alike, bits and pieces of information, maps, weapons, contracts, blueprints, official correspondence. It all streams together like a deck of cards being shuffled, until Will puts his fingers to the keyboard.

What little he knows about cyber-intelligence has been consumed through theory, not practice. 

He can shut down the database and then proceed to intercept the alien software leeching off them, but that may cause irreparable damage to whatever information is currently being decrypted. Reformatting is out of the question once he takes into consideration the fact that there is no backup system for the data being siphoned out. There is no hard-drive within reach.

“Katz, walk me through this,” he says, deciding that it’s the only way to get it done. Du Maurier insisted he take the computer, but she never insinuated he couldn’t make use of his resources.

Beverly sits up straighter, looking to the woman and then to Jack, before focusing on Will. “Tell me what you see.”

***

There is no shortage of confidence in Will’s ability to fulfil his assignments, so long as it’s within his reach of skills. His limited amount of failures have only ever pushed him to do better, hesitate less, uncaring of how self-destructive his methods might be. Although, he doesn’t see it as self-destructive behavior, only an improvement to an aspect that was previously insufficient.

He doesn’t wallow in pity as he steps inside his small house, on to a puddle of furs who greet him with every ounce of enthusiasm Jack Crawford lacked when the office was cleared. Here there is no judgment and no scowls, and the only half-hearted barks he receives are in demand for food.

Will drops his coat and suitcase on the couch closest to the front door, uncaring of the dog hair he’s yet to clean up.

A short whistle has the dogs dispersing and obediently sitting, granting him enough space to make for the kitchen. He reaches for the bag of dog food he keeps under the sink and pours bigger-than-usual servings into their bowls in the living room. While they eat, he moves into the bedroom.

The hazy afternoon sun seeps in through the windows, covering the snow with a warm glow that hurts his eyes if he stares too much. He doesn’t draw the curtains before slipping into more comfortable clothes, mindful that it’s early enough to take the dogs out for a stretch.

The excited thump and scratch of paws over the floor is the only sound that permeates the silence as he enters the kitchen again, and Will pulls a genuine smile, basking in the warmth it lights in his bones. He pours himself a mug of whiskey, deciding that dinner can wait until after he closes down for the night.

Rinsing out the thermos he had forgotten this morning and putting a new pot of coffee to brew, Will stews in the unpleasant twists today had taken. The taste of failure is heavy on his tongue, even when Beverly stepped out of the ring victorious after three grueling hours of ceaseless fighting. It would have taken a lot less time if she had been the one behind the screen to begin with, but Du Maurier had made matters unnecessarily difficult for no apparent reason other than her client requesting it of her.

Causing a sector-wide blackout turned out to be the only option once they had discovered how deeply the bug had inserted itself. The damage is vast but not irreparable, and it will take them days to get back online. Their current vulnerability has left Crawford livid, yelling out orders left and right, demanding things that cannot be given until the tech team has the sector up and running again.

Once it had been done, when Will sat back with feverish heat blooming on his cheeks, thanking Beverly for her assistance, Du Maurier had risen to her feet, taken the computer and slid it back into her bag. With nothing more than a charming, tight-lipped smile, she turned to leave.

Jack was quick to stand, to yell at her to not move until she explained what had happened, but a phone call interrupted his tirade.

 _Don’t hold her, Agent Crawford,_ said the voice Will had recognized as that of the executive director’s. 

Clearly outranked, all Jack could do was square his shoulders and watch her leave with nothing but a polite _thank you_ in her wake.

Will blinks, looks down when a furry body sits by his feet and looks up at him.

“What is it, Winston?” he asks, reaching to scratch behind the dog’s ear. Big, shiny eyes remain unblinking, tail wagging excitedly. 

Will knows exactly what Winston wants.

He pops a container of leftover meatloaf in the microwave, idly noting how spoiled his dogs are and savoring the thought. It’s one of the few good things he has in life.

They take to the barren field once the food has been consumed and coffee brewed. 

He leaves the front door open, unworried, in case any of the dogs want to make their way back before he returns. Wolf Trap is a safe place, remote and surrounded only by a danger Will can efficiently fend off with his hunting rifle. The nearest house is a matter of miles away, located on a farm that’s adjacent to his, owned by an elderly couple who simply mind their own.

Will walks.

The early morning call has done nothing to tire him more than the usual. He’s coiled up and ready to run, needing to run, be it away from the tension at the back of his mind or towards a mess that will keep him from lingering on said tension. Tired to the point of physical exhaustion is something he aims for, otherwise no sleep will come when he puts his head on the pillow. 

Complacency and inaction take him to very dark places, the kind that are difficult to claw his way out of when there’s no outlet for him to cling to. Whenever he finds himself standing in the darkness of an abandoned warehouse with sweat staining every inch of him, Will climbs out with the distinct feeling that he’ll somehow end up there again, that he has no other choice but to walk right into the plot with unarmed hands.

Sometimes he can hear the bombs going off, the shaking of the ground beneath him that force the walls around him to come crashing down. That’s when the scream that grows in his chest festers into something ugly and putrid, threatening to choke the life out of him. But it’s a scream he continues to swallow out of fear that, were he ever to start, he’d never be able to stop.

This is when he walks.

The snow that crunches under his boots grounds him, the cold that makes his shoulder ache with phantom pain serves as a gentle reminder that he’s still here inspite of his weakened foundations.

When the world is unstable, Will walks out into sea and loses himself in the gentle tug and pull of the abyss. Under the cover of stars or a piercing blue sky, rain or sunshine, grass or fog, Will stands outside and looks in. 

Let the water lap at his ankles and soak his clothing, his house will always float like a tiny beacon in the middle of the tempest, guiding him home.

In the distance, Winston runs with a branch in his mouth and Buster tries wrestling it from him. They bark and roll playfully on the snow, pouncing over each other until Mandy joins them, managing to take the stick and make a run for it. They chase after her.

The waters are calm today, Will decides, stopping at the middle of the field and looking around him. The forest is quiet, the company is good, and the air is crisp. Cold, but not enough to be bothersome as he burrows into his coat. The day is good, even when he craves the whiskey he left abandoned on the kitchen counter.

With the sun still up but darkness beginning to encroach on the horizon, Will whistles for the return home. 

There’s still fish in the freezer and he has built enough of an appetite to entertain the thought of cooking something fancy for himself.

Three dogs zoom by, nearly tripping him, but he only laughs. Their legs are dirty and fur matted, and he takes note to hose them down in the bathroom after lighting the fireplace and starting on dinner. Two more dogs join those three, and then another.

Winston pads up next to him and keeps pace. “Had fun?” Will asks him, slipping his hands into his pockets. “Looks like you’re gonna fit in just fine.”

Will’s smile fades when Winston breaks into a run to join the rest of the pack for reasons that leave him slowing his stride. His hand immediately goes for the back pocket until he remembers that he’s brought no weapon with him, never having had a reason to.

He clenches his jaw as he approaches the front lawn, an unfamiliar car parked mere feet away from his porch where the dogs huddle agitated, growling at the intruder.

The man stands leaning against the hood, his back to Will.

He debates whether or not he’ll be noticed if he takes the back door and holes himself in until the man decides to leave. From calling the cops to firing a warning shot, every possibility is considered and scrutinized until he finally decides that, no matter how much his paranoia tells him otherwise, this man is not here to assassinate him.

At least, that’s what his psychiatrist tells him.

Part of him reasons that it’s Dr. Bloom’s assurances that will one day get him killed.

Will scuffs the snow under his feet to make his presence known without speaking, and stops walking when the man turns to face him.

To put a word to him, Will settles on _peculiar_.

“Mr. Graham?” the man says, walking around the car and offering his hand. “Alexander Lecter.”

Instinct tells Will to not shake hands with the person trespassing on his property, so he doesn’t, keeping his hands firmly in his pockets as he squares off his shoulders. If the man is an agent, then he will be more than able to read Will’s body language — the kind that says that he’s armed and lethally dangerous. If he isn’t, then he’ll simply consider Will as standoffish, which isn’t a ruse.

Initial hostility aside, there’s something familiar about the name.

“I’m a colleague of Dr. Bloom,” Lecter clears up, dropping his hand and looking nonplussed at the blatant disregard.

Will nods his head then, momentarily thrown off when he puts two and two together. “You’re Alana’s boyfriend.” He figured him younger.

Lecter’s smile is barely there, tight and practiced as he politely nods. “If you prefer the term.”

The returning smile is sardonic, Will having little patience for people’s insistence on picking at his brain. Which, he is ready to bet, is the reason why the man is here. 

Will can already smell the referral, Alana having grown uncomfortable by his extremely stupid attempt to ask her out to dinner. He should have known she was seeing someone; the sudden change in perfume quality should have been a clear indication of such.

“So, are you here to, um, deliver the news of my referral to someone capable of dealing with my brand of crazy? Without, of course, risking any more opportunities for romantic proclivities?”

The corners of Lecter’s mouth turn up into a more pronounced smile, one that reads like curious amusement. “Not at all,” he says. “I’m afraid that I do not have the suitable qualifications that would allow me to deal with your brand of work.” He holds himself tall, keeping close to the car as if it were an appendage or an accessory to his outfit. “Alana has no qualms with you as her patient.”

A simple declaration that he knows all about Will’s doctor-patient relationship with Alana and his ill-conceived attempt to woo her, but it isn’t an aggressive one. Lecter sees no competition which in turn suggests no reason for defensiveness, and try as he may, Will cannot keep the indignation out of his stance.

The man reeks of wealth and stability. His car speaks volumes of his socialite status, as well as the impeccable press of his black coat and paisley tie. The immaculate partition of his hair, the sharp bones of his face, the strange set of his mouth — it all points to someone foreign, and as silly as the observation is, it rings important in Will’s mind.

“Not fond of eye contact, are you?” Lecter asks, taking several steps closer to him.

Will stands his ground. They may be near equal in height, but the man holds a sort of gravity that makes him seem far bigger, as if his presence alone demands everyone’s attention. “Eyes are distracting,” he begins, but the rest of the sentence dies out.

 _Eyes are distracting,_ but so is every other aspect of this man. He’s not unlike Jack, but he’s also nothing like him. There’s heaviness, and Will can really use a drink.

“Sometimes we choose to lose ourselves to a distraction in order to escape a particularly unpleasant reality.”

“Whimsy is a dangerous thing,” Will agrees, briefly meeting the man’s eyes. He quickly looks away, a sudden cold gripping his windpipe.

“It often leaves us vulnerable.” Lecter is looking at him with carefully veiled interest. “Wise is the man who chooses when and when not to partake in it.”

“Personally, I think it’s best to avoid it altogether.” Will sets his attention on the man’s shoulder, unsettled at what he’d seen in those eyes. “Eliminate temptation.”

Lecter opens his mouth to speak, but then closes it, thoughtfully pursing his lips. Although he doesn’t say it, Will is certain he was about to make a jab about Alana but decided against, maybe to try and get on his good side.

“Temptation is just as dangerous as whimsy,” he says instead, clasping his hands together in front of him. Lecter looks over to the porch, considering the dogs that have lost all interest in them. 

If he thinks Will is going to invite him in, he’s got another thing coming.

“Is that why you decided to drive here?” Will asks, taking the hands out of his pockets and crossing them over his chest. “Whimsy?”

Lecter turns back to him and says nothing, allowing his posture to do the talking for him.

This isn’t a visit meant to warn Will, there is no warning to give. What’s done is done and that’s it. After Alana’s rejection, Will hadn’t pushed, neither does he hold it against her. She knows it, he knows it, Lecter knows it; therefore, that isn’t the reason why he’s here.

Will searches for anything that might give away the man’s intention, but the leap comes not from Lecter, but from this morning’s meeting.

_Of course._

The same brand of self-importance.

“You’re Dr. Du Maurier’s client,” Will says, the image crumbling away before rebuilding itself with an entire new set of warnings.

The flash of a smile Will gets for his troubles is disconcerting. For all the charm the man emits, the sharpness of his teeth promises nothing but cruelty.

“Doctor-patient confidentiality,” Lecter says as way of explanation. “I feared that, if left unchecked, the situation would have escalated exponentially.”

However believable, Will picks up on the lie. “Congratulations, Dr. Lecter. You’ve assisted in saving _some_ lives. The list would have been more extensive had you not obligated Dr. Du Maurier to have me do the job rather than our tech expert.”

Lecter nods his head. “I was curious.”

“Curious?”

Before the conversation continues, Lecter turns away from Will and towards his car. From the backseat he pulls out a suitcase, which he opens once it’s placed on the hood. A thin manila folder is extracted and given to Will.

Hesitantly, Will opens it.

Photographs spill out, most of them featuring a man in a suit doing mundane things. The others are far more gruesome, sparking recognition almost instantly. Murder scenes staged like works of art.

Will slips them back into the folder and hands them over, but Lecter doesn’t take them. 

“Here’s the rest of the information,” he says, gesturing to Will’s hand.

“We don’t deal with serial killers, Doctor. You might want to ring up the FBI for that.”

“You misunderstand,” Lecter says, moving to close the suitcase and set it back in the car. “Mr. Graham, the man in those stills killed his victims utilizing unmarketed, biochemical technology. Before mutilating and exhibiting the bodies.” Once done, he sits against the hood of his car, drawing leather gloves from his pockets and putting them on. “The same man is allegedly involved in costing the development of experimental cybernetics.” He stops to wet his lips, then faces Will with a charming smile. “The CIA only has theories, and I come bearing evidence.”

“How do you…” Will stops, reconsiders. “Doctor-patient confidentiality.”

Lecter nods.

Something is missing, doesn’t fit.

“You said you were under-qualified to work with people in my line of duty.” Will holds up the folder, suspicion solidified when an odd spark lights up the man’s face. “How did you get these if it wasn’t from a patient?”

When Lecter doesn’t reply, Will takes a step forward.

Du Maurier is one thing, but this man is a different kind of monster. Will may be looking at the face of another security breach, of a threat rather than a source of authentic information. A dozen thoughts wreak frenzy in him, each one fighting for dominance, telling him to _see_ , but Will doesn’t want to.

Meeting Lecter’s eyes had only driven Will to crash against a brick wall. Nothing to read or pick apart. There was simply void.

“I would appreciate if you don’t lie to a special agent, Dr. Lecter,” Will says, coolly, keeping his stare on the man’s forehead rather than his eyes. “This could get really messy.”

Rather than aggression, Will is met with humor. “In that case, I’ll have no other choice than to be completely honest with you, Will.” He stops for a moment, deliberating. “May I call you Will?”

“May I call you Alex?” Will says with sarcasm he’s unwilling to hide behind a fake smile.

Lecter pulls in a breath, but it’s the sheer satisfaction on his face that leaves Will standing on unsteady feet. “Please, call me Hannibal.”

Realization doesn’t come as easy as flipping a switch, but rather like a sunrise, in which light slowly crawls over the horizon and paints the world blue, then gold. Thoughts swell in the form of a crescendo.

The struggle comes in pinning the actual lie.

“Tobias and I have peeked into each other’s portfolios more times than I would like to admit. I’ve seen him work. Meticulous yet unrefined, always striving to perfect his sciences rather than his skill — and, Will, don’t.”

Will blinks behind his glasses. “Sorry?”

“There is no need to call the Agency,” he says, pointedly looking at the hand that had been inching towards the phone in Will’s back pocket. “Dr. Du Maurier and I are… exempt of basic protocol. They already know I am here.”

The knot in Will’s throat tightens, fight-or-flight instincts spawning a migraine.

“Hannibal Lecter,” Will repeats, the name sounding incredulous and heavy on his tongue.

Of all the people who would invade the sanctity of Will’s haven, he never expected it to be him. A man held in such high esteem, respected by his colleagues; such a pinnacle of social grace and decorum.

The same man who is often referred to as a specter; unseen and undetected by Interpol, the FBI, and MI6. The man with a bounty on his head so big, the FBI’s Most Wanted could never hope to compete at his level.

Hannibal Lecter is standing not ten feet from Will’s porch, and the reaction to his presence seems to be exactly what he had been expecting. 

“A pleasure to finally meet you, Agent Graham,” Lecter says, expression guarded but eerily polite. “I’ve heard so much about you.”


	3. The Recruitment

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Relearning how to use a gun after Will’s last field mission has been a lot like relearning how to ride a bike with an amputated foot: one part physical, three parts psychological trauma.

Will had dreaded the return to the spot behind his designated keyboard after the breach. Feelings of inadequacy quickly fade as he slips into familiar shoes, fingers moving with a flow born from years of experience.

Input and analysis of information, creating and recreating scenarios conceived by gathered data is a craft Will can do without a computer, but the added bonus of a carefully designed software makes his assignments 96% error free. The need for human intuition guarantees Will a job.

_No one can do this job better than you,_ Jack had once said. It’s a record Will knows all the lyrics to.

Intuition has as much to do with it as the ill-conceived idea of ‘the lesser of two evils’. There is no lesser here, no forced ultimatum on how to approach and diffuse the situation. The Agency has a tendency to unnecessarily tread on the grayer areas, and Will and Jack both wish the others could see why this would be a bad idea.

By others Will means the deputy executive director of the Counterintelligence Division, a woman who is as unmovable and unflinching as the con man sitting beside her in the conference room; a con man who, she thinks, is the perfect man for the job.

“Ms. Prurnell,” Jack tries to reason, fingers laced together over the table. His agitation bleeds through his tone, not that he ever bothers to hide it. “Our agents have been trained, for months, to take on this kind of mission. I can name ten individuals off the top of my head that I could stake my reputation on. Individuals who are certified to manage A Level classified assignments.”

“I know that perfectly well,” she says.

“Then, I don’t see why you insist on…” a hand gesture that signifies Jack’s lack of a word, “ _enlisting_ a man like Dr. Lecter.”

“He isn’t even a real doctor,” Will adds, slightly sarcastic and completely unhelpful, without looking up from the computer screen.

Jack looks from Will to Lecter, pleased that someone is taking his side. “Not to be rude, Hannibal,” he says, stressing the name. The amount of aliases they’ve connected to him are innumerable. “But it isn’t like you have any sort of valid credentials.”

Lecter gives them a curt nod, one that suggests he won’t try to state otherwise. “I’ve been a member of the psychiatric community for fifteen years, Agent Crawford. Before that, I served as a surgeon for ten. Am I to go further back, I have been a writer and a professor.” Cool satisfaction is thinly veiled by the curl of his accent.

“You falsified all manner of official documents,” Jack says, casting Prurnell a quick look. “Stock market scams, credit card fraud, money laundering; I can go on.”

“Crawford.”

Jack holds up a hand to still her protest. “And I’m not even poking at the shadier allegations here, Mr. Lecter.” He opens the folder in front of him, one holding an array of reports dating back at least thirty years. “Aggravated assault, attempted murder. I’m afraid to ask if you’ve ever succeeded.”

The set of Lecter’s mouth resembles a pout, but the stoicness of him betrays nothing more than polite attention. He takes up the space in his chair like he owns it, as if he were the single most important being in the cosmos and he damn well knows it. It’s a stark contrast to the charming man who came to Wolf Trap days ago.

“What I see are useful assets,” he says, directing his eyes to the folder in Jack’s hands. “What person doesn’t aspire towards a lucrative career?”

The look shared between Lecter and Jack is brief but charged with so much one-sided animosity that Prurnell clears her throat. “Lecter’s history may be complicated, but he’s successfully managed to prevent detection while hiding in plain sight.” She cocks her head to the side, already decided. “Even for us, something that ambitious would prove difficult.”

“You’re talking about a man who has made a profession out of lying. What makes you think he’ll play by our rules?”

“Assign me an escort,” Lecter says.

Will has stood through interrogations that were less effective than this, in which the orchestration had fallen so short it’s almost embarrassing how useless they now seem. The man speaks the words like they’re being read off a script, and it only just occurs to Will how in control Lecter is of the conversation, driving it through hills and curves he has already scouted with a wicked attention to detail.

The procedure is similar to Will’s initial inspection for operatives good enough for specific assignments. He pours through files and interviews them, narrows down his choices before drafting an idea and coordinating a mission he’ll monitor from behind a monitor.

When it’s clear that Jack is considering it, Will looks up to find Lecter’s inhumanely cold eyes staring at him.

A lucrative man, he thinks, will find a way to make profit out of any situation. Lecter isn’t offering this piece of intelligence, he’s selling it for the price of him being directly involved.

“An escort,” Prurnell says, like it’s the most brilliant idea anyone has had in days.

“Asking you to trust me would be nonsensical, and with good reason. Perhaps, if you are to assign an agent who will not hinder me throughout the affair, the Agency will be able to redirect its efforts to where it is most needed.”

The ploy hides in the choice of his words, each one a gentle nudge, an insinuation, as to where the conversation should go.

When Jack turns to cast Will a look that is everything but apologetic, he knows Lecter has won.

“I’m sure Crawford has a few names on that list of his,” Prurnell says, satisfied at the turn things have taken. “I can assure you, Mr. Lecter, that the Agency will see to this with as little bedlam as possible. Isn’t that right, Jack?”

Jack doesn’t look away from Lecter. “Let me ask you something, real quick.” He leans back in his seat, open palm rhythmically beating the armrest. “Why?” At the quirk of Lecter’s brow, Jack continues. “Why the insistence of joining the mission? Of giving us the intel?”

Considering the questions, Lecter simply states: “I’m curious as to what will happen.”

The file being scanned signals its completion, and Will’s attention is finally back on the computer. What he sees is a complicated assortment of symbols and unmarked grids, all of them pulsing red before settling into a generic blue. At their corner there is a logo he is quick to recognize.

“InRon Dynamics,” he says, picking up his pen and ciphering the name onto his notepad. For all the technology, he’d rather rely on old fashion ink and paper.

“Mr. Graham?” Prurnell’s words echo the thought that she’d forgotten about his presence.

“The man on the image, Tobias Budge, he’s acting CEO of InRon Dynamics.” Will’s laugh is hollow. “This changes a lot of things. Like the fact that we can’t put a kill order on the owner of the world’s leading bio-technological empire.”

“We’re not putting out a kill order,” she says. “Your job is to design and construct a scenario in which we’ll be able to infiltrate and find - if any - compromising information that may prove dangerous to national security.”

“Like if he’s creating zombies in an underground lab?” Her frown says she’s not amused by his attempt at humor. “InRon doesn’t work with biochemical agents.” Not officially.

“Neither do CEOs mutilate seemingly innocent people,” Lecter says.

Aware of the scrutiny he’s under, Will shifts his shoulders and longs for a cup of coffee. “We have no proof that Budge was the man behind the trigger, aside from your testimony. And you weren’t even there to witness it.”

“If not behind the trigger, then he is a killer by proxy.”

“As are most multi-billion dollar industries. Still not enough evidence to condemn him before the law.”

“That’s where we come in,” Prurnell interjects, looking down to fix the cuff of her jacket. “You know what to do,” she directs at Will, leveling him with a stare that dares him to refuse. “I am aware that I have no need to tell you how to do your job, but I feel like I should remind you. Leave no door unchecked, Mr. Graham, for all parties involved.”

“How many men?” he asks, placing a lid over the irritation that is about to boil over. He’s here to do his job, and he’ll approach this as he’s done dozens of times before. If the plan of hiring Lecter backfires, that’s on them for adding an unknown variable to Will’s world of constants. But would he really leave an opening just to prove that he’s right about them being wrong?

An escort will be assigned to Lecter, but he will write in a second agent to keep an eye on both. Six men in total, maybe seven, without taking into consideration the contacts he will have to establish wherever the mission takes them.

“Only two,” she says, forcing Will to trip over his thoughts. “Intelligence. It’s an easy enough procedure.”

“Ms. Prurnell, with all due respect, I don’t think leaving Lecter alone with a single agent is a good idea.” His cohesion is too false, too perfectly constructed. There’s nothing to trust, nothing to guarantee he won’t corrupt or destroy his escort.

“I don’t appreciate the sarcasm.” Her words are cold as she gets up and gathers her belongings. “But as it is, the only people we will need on this assignment will be you and Mr. Lecter. Ms. Katz will man your post while you’re on the field.”

_Absolute control of the scenario._

Even with his mouth pressed in mild surprise, Will can scent the gratification Lecter is getting out of it. His fingers have moved, tugged the strings masterfully over the table, and Will is left standing on a pedestal that violently tries to shake him off.

“I’m not a field operative,” Will says, as simple as stating that the sky is blue. “Jack,” he tries, but the man won’t look at him. “You know I won’t pass the physical or psych eval. Get Zeller on this. Hell, even Price would be a better choice here. A _logical_ one.”

Crawford looks up at Prurnell, but not with the face of a man asking her to reconsider. Jack isn’t on Will’s side, he never has been, even with his insistence of him being the rock Will leans against when he’s too tired to carry on. He doesn’t push, however. He has no need to. All Jack has to do is unlock the door and Will is - time and time again - stepping inside with minimum invitation.

The fragile veil Will keeps between his mind and his work is being violated by the nails of a predator wanting to look behind it, but he’s unsure on which side the predator stands.

“Make the plan,” Jack tells Will, but doesn’t turn to look at him. “Make it as easy as possible and hand it over to Katz.” With that, he too stands up to leave.

Lecter stands immediately after, reaching over the table to shake hands with Prurnell and Crawford. “I hope I haven’t made things unnecessarily difficult. I’m only trying to help.”

“We’ll be in contact with you shortly, Mr. Lecter.” Prurnell takes his words for what they’re meant to disguise. She isn’t dense and neither is she easily swayed by charming smiles and foreign accents. “Standard protocol has been activated and as of this moment we’ll be monitoring all means of communication. For your safety, of course. I hope you won’t mind.”

The mistrust is present in the room, and Will accepts it. The situation is not ideal, too many loose ends, but he can work with it.

“My office?” Lecter says, a hint of worry edging into his words.

“Patients are usually treated while present in the office and not through a phoneline,” she says, and it isn’t a question. “There will be no breach of confidentiality when all we’re aware of are appointment schedules and cancellations.”

Lecter looks down at the table, considering. “Is there any alternative to this?”

“I’m afraid not, considering you’re a wanted criminal.” Prurnell lifts her chin in a blatant show of superiority. “Mr. Lecter, you’re working for us now, simply because I have reason to believe that you’re still withholding information that may be invaluable to the Agency.” And then lower, “Don’t believe for a second that we’re not in control here.”

The finality of the words ends the conversation, and all three men watch her walk out of the room.

There’s a moment of hesitation, in which Will busies himself behind the computer to start drafting out a plan that will suit his presence in the field, before Crawford finally speaks. “The list could have been infinite, Will.”

Will nods his head, avoids looking at either them.

In the end, he knew it’d have to be him.

***

The release he had come looking for falls short with every pull of the trigger.

Life carries on, uneventful, as Will untangles the ball of yarn in his hands and creates an awe-inspiring tapestry. 

Day in and day out, he works, feeds his dogs, shuffles snow away from his porch. Winter grows colder, but feverish excitement keeps him warm. 

More coffee is required by him, and Lecter is kind enough to get a package delivered to Will’s work station every Monday morning. The brand is exotic, most likely impossible to find locally, and he can’t be bothered to reject the gift. Its smell is rich and heavy, and settles in Will’s gut like a soothing balm.

The clock ticks. Will can hear it over the earmuffs; each stroke of the seconds hand accompanied by a bullet.

He finishes the clip, brings up his target and frowns.

“You’re a Weaver. I took you for an isosceles guy.” Beverly’s voice is muffled, only able to be heard because she’s standing so close to him.

Will gives her a brief look before focusing on changing his clip. “I have a rotator cuff issue so I have to use the Weaver stance.” He doesn’t dwell on that, and she doesn’t push.

“Heard from Jack you’re back in the saddle.”

“Ish.”

“No ish here, buddy. I finally get to see you in full _James Bond_ mode. That oughta be a riot.”

Changing the paper target and sending it back into place, Will fires another round.

Relearning how to use a gun after his last field mission has been a lot like relearning how to ride a bike with an amputated foot: one part physical, three parts psychological trauma. The familiar weight in his hand grants the illusion of the weapon being held backwards, Will aiming the barrel towards his face rather than a target. Phantom pains twitch. Sweat beads along his forehead.

He passed the psychological evaluation with flying colors and he has no idea how.

Next up is his physical. The easiest step is shooting a stationary target, but that’s proving difficult when his shoulder refuses to cooperate, failing to absorb the recoil.

“Try this,” Beverly says, her hands on him before he can protest.

She nudges his feet apart, angles his elbows.

Will shoots the last of his clip.

“Did you come down here to teach me how to shoot?” he asks, bringing up and inspecting the target. The improvement is remarkable. “Which I appreciate.”

Beverly grins at him, angles her head in a gesture for him to follow her out to the lockers.

Equipment returned and cubicle swept, Will does so.

“I’m being kept in the dark about a lot of shit, Will. Normally I’m cool with that, but not when I’m the one that has to be monitoring you while you’re overseas.” Opening her locker, she pulls out a small wallet and tucks it into her pant pocket. “You’re a pro. If anyone knows what they’re doing, it’s you.”

“But?”

“But your plan reeks of total bullshit,” she says, slamming the locker shut and setting the lock. “Vienna for two? Even as a low profile recon, it sounds too damn risky.”

Cleaning his glasses with his shirt, Will shrugs. “They delivered the facts, I deconstructed and made a blueprint. A blueprint that is sitting on your desk.”

“I know, already went through it.” Beverly crosses her arms over her chest and leans against the locker, shifts when the lock digs into her back. “Rumors are this Lecter guy has something to do with the security breach.”

Glasses back on his face, Will has no trouble looking up. “There will always be rumors.”

“Are you gonna be okay?” The genuine worry in her voice reminds him that there are still people that care, regardless of how scarce they are. “You chose a desk job for a reason.”

“It’s a simple job.”

“It’s never simple for us.”

Pursing his lips, he nods. “Just make sure I don’t get killed, okay?”

“Oh, that reminds me.” Her grin is impish as she brings up a hand to tap nails against her chin. “You didn’t leave any identity specifications.”

Will now wishes he had. “I was told not to. Du Maurier is running them through with Jack and passing them on to you.” Less time to prepare, he thinks. It can’t be too hard to pinpoint a specific set of guests for them to blend into, which makes him wonder what Du Maurier is up to. “I have no hopes on finding out who I’ll be before I get on the plane.”

“Sounds like fun, considering how much you love surprises.”

He almost smiles at that, her humor infectious in its sincerity.

“What are you gonna do about your dogs?” she says then, sobering up. “I can drive up and feed them, if you need.”

This time, Will’s smile does border on genuine. “I’ve already got that covered.”

***

The training room is too large, too empty on a late Sunday morning. In its silence, it’s easy for him to count the seconds that go by, the song orchestrated by each footfall on the treadmill. Off to the side, the heart monitor beeps out of time.

Time. Time is _unreliable_ to Will. A useless tool that is broken both in and around him.

Preparing a meal - thirty minutes.

Breaking into a computer mainframe - three hours.

Walking the dogs - one hour.

Running out of a collapsing building - six minutes.

Sleep - four hours at the most.

Time is unstable, the watch on his wrist emulating the most basic of liars. Either time flies or it slugs by and Will has difficulty gauging it now. Dr. Bloom had patronized him by stating that it’s a part of growing up as a mild attempt at lightening the mood, one that was quickly abandoned in lieu of discussing the true reasons why.

He quickens his pace.

Taking routine runs along the trail behind his house hasn’t proved entirely useless, but he’s still out of shape. He can execute the basics when it comes to CQB, muscle memory and instinct driving him to where he has to stand and how he should avoid getting hit. Stamina, however, is something he has to build up again.

Lungs burning, Will pushes his body to its limits. He takes even breaths, adjusts his posture and concentrates on things far away from the room.

Three weeks until departure and then he will be on location for two. 

The mission is simple enough. Langley’s got contacts peppered throughout Austria and he’ll be meeting several of them during a high roller boxing match in Vienna. In the meantime, Lecter will be digging his claws into non-law-abiding citizens for his own brand of information, the kind they need but are unable to retrieve unless they get dirty. The Agency has deemed the assignment classified but not top priority, so they will much rather let someone else do the scouting for them under their supervision.

Irritation makes him run faster.

There is no need for him to take on this assignment as a field agent aside from Lecter’s indirect request. Having seen right through Prurnell’s intentions, Will is offended to be used as a lure, or, worse yet, a prize. He’s an incentive for Lecter to play by their rules.

Treadmill left behind, he moves to the punching bag.

His mind defaults to a blankness that is neither pleasant or unpleasant. The effect this holds is similar to the kind one gets while looking at a blank document and having nothing to type on it. Rather than frustration born out of the urgency to write, there is a mellow undertone that says he has nothing to do and no place to be.

He lets the feeling overtake him, allowing his body free range across the mat under his feet. The fatigue, exhaustion, and anger are soon forgotten.

Oddly shaped clouds drift across his mind’s eye. Explosions of colors. A warm bath. Motes of dust dancing in early morning sunlight. A gentle touch.

The stream is turbulent and its water’s cold, but Will throws his line.

A dark figure saunters through the trees, watching him with dark eyes that hold cosmic dust in their depths. Its antlers are beautiful and intimidating. They would make a beautiful addition to a worthy hunter’s wall.

The out of place sound of something light thumping over wood and the smell of - eggs? - drag Will up to float over the surface of his mind palace. Unbalanced by the sudden intrusion, he stumbles forward, bracing his closed fists against the worn leather of the punching bag. Sweaty curls fall into his eyes, making them sting before he drags them away with the back of his hand.

“Good morning, Will. Pardon the intrusion.”

Will stares, annoyed, at the man that hovers beside one of the lounge tables where a stack of decorated containers stands. “What are you doing here?”

“I had hoped to find you at your home,” Lecter says, unbothered by Will’s defensiveness. “Luckily, I called Ms. Katz before I made the drive. She told me you’d be here.” There’s a beat of tense silence and then, “Breakfast?”

The scrambled eggs are the fluffiest and creamiest that have ever graced Will’s mouth, and the sausages burst with juice after every satisfying crunch. A carnival of flavor wreaks havoc on his tastebuds, and either Will is famished or Lecter is an amazingly good cook. “It’s delicious. Thank you.”

“My pleasure,” he says with a friendly smile, taking a bite from his own forkfull.

There isn’t a muscle in Will’s body that doesn’t feel like it’s about to collapse at any given moment, and after half a container of food has disappeared, his stomach begins to protest the intake. It doesn’t stop him from eating, spearing and relishing every last bite, chasing it down with coffee that’s strong enough to wake the dead but smooth enough to go down nicely. 

Once done, the aggravation comes back. There’s no specific root of origin this time, but that doesn’t stop him from frowning down at his mug. Leaning back in the chair, Will is too aware of the sweat clinging to every inch of him, permeating his sweatpants and t-shirt. He must smell of sewage.

Then there’s Lecter, neatly pressed in a godawful suit that he somehow pulls off with poise. Perfectly kept down to the intentional dusting of stubble along his jaw. He’s probably wearing cologne.

“I would apologize for my ambush, but I know I will soon be apologizing again and you’ll tire of that eventually, so I have to consider using apologies sparingly.”

Will keeps his eyes on the coffee. “Is the food meant to be a peace offering?”

“Of sorts. We’ll be working in close quarters, and it would be best to be in good terms with each other.”

_For two weeks_ , Will reminds himself. He’s never spent so much time with a single person before, which means that the odds of this not ending well are pretty high. “Just keep it professional.”

Lecter finishes his meal, placing the lid over the porcelain container. It has sakura flowers painted over a pale turquoise backdrop. “Or we could socialize, like adults.” Mirth touches his face in a way that’s far too welcoming for Will’s taste. “God forbid we become friendly.”

“I don’t find you that interesting.”

The look the statement earns him is like an icy touch along the spine. There’s more than just amusement there, but he can’t pinpoint what. Will wants to see, but all he’s met with is a great wall with no grooves for him to climb.

“You will,” Lecter says, and his smile bares just a brief show of teeth. “Agent Crawford tells me you have a knack for monsters?”

“Did he tell you that before or after you decided to tie me down?”

“Is that what you feel has happened?”

Will drinks the last of his coffee and puts down the mug, unhappy with the fact that his stomach seems to be disagreeing. “There’s a reason why I don’t work the field anymore, Mr. Lecter. Your blatant manipulation has violated that.”

Lecter moves forward, leaning against the table as he inspects Will carefully. Surprisingly, the gesture doesn’t seem invasive, only clinical. “I’m familiar with your case.” He angles his head in a way that stills Will’s protest. “The law has never stopped me before.”

The intrusion leaves a bad taste in his mouth. Knowing that this man has read his personal files has him feeling naked and vulnerable, edging him to lash out and protect what little dignity he has left. “And you want us to become friendly?”

“The traumatized are unpredictable because we know we can survive,” says Lecter, betraying no sort of emotion. “I think Uncle Jack sees you as a fragile little teacup. The finest China, used for only special guests.”

Will considers Lecter, running the words through his fingers and pulling apart their meaning. His use of the word _we_ stands out against everything he has shown them, so out of place it almost paints a gruesome picture for Will to look upon.

He laughs, perplexed by the man sitting before him. “How do you see me?”

Lecter thinks during the space of a second. “The mongoose I want under the house when the snakes slither by.”


	4. The Lie

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Twelve hours to departure. He still hasn’t packed.

The phone rings at 8:00am, startling Will from a fitful sleep. He knocks down a half-empty tumbler of whiskey in his hurry to pick it up but doesn’t hear it shatter, leaving him to guess that it must have landed on the rug. 

Dr. Bloom is on the line. She tells him she will be driving Abigail Hobbs up to Wolf Trap in two hours to see that she’s settled during her short stay, and for Will to say his goodbyes. He mumbles his way through the conversation and hangs up with a groan.

Twelve hours to departure. He still hasn’t packed.

Getting up from the bed, the first thing he does is remove the bed sheets and towels and dump them in the washer. The night terrors had made him perspire like an animal, and more than once he woke up screaming, fearing that the moisture on his skin was blood rather than sweat. Bombs are still going off in his ears.

Will moves through the morning like a dead man. He puts coffee to brew and lets out the dogs while making a weak attempt to clean up the place before company arrives. Alana won’t stay long, she’ll just linger until she’s satisfied that Abigail has everything she needs. Abigail, on the other hand, is here to house-sit for the next two weeks.

He showers and then makes breakfast, thinking of the protein scramble Hannibal had prepared for him. He throws in enough for three people. In fact, there’s enough for four considering he’s brought out the pancake mix.

When the dogs return, they decide to soak up the weak sunlight on the porch after Will delivers their meal.

The car horn comes when he’s wrestling his luggage out of the walk-in closet, and he sighs at the timing.

His guests arrive to a chorus of happy barks, the dogs already familiar with Abigail’s presence. They stop to sniff at Alana, and she happily holds out her hands for them to scent her. She flashes a grin at Will, which he returns in the form of a smile from his place at the porch. His attention switches to Abigail soon after, because she’s standing in front of him with arms wide open.

“Morning,” she says, walking into Will and enveloping him in a tight hug. Her hair smells of coconut.

“Hey.” Will holds her for all of two seconds before shifting to pull away, physical contact being one of those things he really isn’t in the state of mind for. Abigail is as understanding as always, taking a step back and adjusting the bottom edge of her sweater.

“Good morning, Will,” Alana greets as she joins them, tucking a fringe of dark hair behind her ear. Her skin glistens in the sunlight and Will finds himself embarrassingly enchanted by her attractiveness.

“Morning, Dr. Bloom,” he says. Slipping his hands into his pockets, he angles his shoulders towards the door. “I made us breakfast.”

They spill inside and the dogs choose to remain outside.

“Everything ready for the trip?” Alana asks, taking the cup of orange juice Abigail gives her. She’s removed her coat and the navy blue blouse is the most casual thing Will has ever seen her wear.

Will makes a vague sound as he tries to fit pancakes, eggs, and bacon into plates without getting them to droop over the edges. “Almost. I, uh, I’m sure I have a list around here somewhere.”

Alana thanks him when he puts the plate in front of her on his tiny table. Abigail insists on serving her own food.

“Make sure to pack socks. Paris gets inhumanly cold during these months,” she says, cutting her pancakes into messy triangles. “The last time I visited, I almost lost my toes to frostbite.”

“Pack a sock to save a life,” Will tries to joke, but it only comes out as forced. Try as he may, he can’t look at Alana in such a social way.

“Why are you going to France again?” Abigail says, sitting down across from her therapist with a healthy serving in hand. “Like, with Dr. Lecter?”

Will knows that Abigail is perfectly aware of where they are going and why, but the inquiry doesn’t surprise him. This is more for Alana’s sake than her own. “We’re working a case together,” he says, deliberately vague. “My office needed a medical professional and Alexander’s French is pretty spot on.” The name feels clumsy on his tongue; _wrong._

Abigail nods her understanding and hides her worry well. “I promise to take good care of the dogs until you come back.”

“I know you will.”

“Two weeks are going to go by very quickly,” Alana tells Abigail. “Especially with classes still ongoing.” She knows better than to take a childlike tone, but Alana weaves a tempo into her words that are soothing. It’s professional, but it’s also personal.

Will eats his breakfast leaning against the counter. “Feel free to take my car if you want to go out,” he says, noting that this is yet to be breached. “Just don’t stay out too late. It gets dark out here.”

“Thanks.” Abigail gives Will a mischievous smile. “But you are aware I have my own car, right?”

“What happened to your mother’s?”

“She sold it. Said she couldn’t have me driving around in a rust bucket.” She shrugs, picking up a slice of bacon and biting into it. “It’s used, but it hasn’t left me stranded yet.”

The wave of relief that washes over him is more than welcome. “I’m glad.”

The following hour goes by with light and pleasant chatter, and once they’re done, Abigail helps Will with the dishes. A rhythm is set while he washes and she dries, placing them back in the cabinets before wiping down the counters.

He tells her that the refrigerator and pantry are stocked with the basics and her favorites, and that she’s more than welcome to get the fireplace going if it gets too cold for just the heater. “Once you get it lit, the dogs will turn into your personal pillow fort,” he tells her, and her laughter is a gift that moves his heart.

Years ago, after his return from Shanghai, Will had walked into Langley to find tear-streaked faces in the lobby. The occurrence wasn’t a rare one, but at that moment Will had felt responsible for the girl who clung to her mother’s dress. 

Garret Jacob Hobbs and he had never seen eye to eye, their approach to assignments far too different for them to ever properly work together, but he hadn’t been a bad man. Although quick on the trigger and even quicker to run, he wasn’t a coward and he hadn’t deserved to die so brutally. He hadn’t deserved to die in Will’s stead, but it’s a common clause in their line of work.

Will had tried to distance himself from the case, shutting it down and moving on with his life, but that woman’s words kept haunting him. Hobb’s mutilated body kept sitting on the corner of his bed, asking about his daughter.

All it took was one therapy session and things spiraled out of control. Dr. Bloom hadn’t wanted to introduce Will to Abigail out of fear of creating a negative rift between two already damaged and traumatized individuals, where Abigail would blame Will for her father’s death. Instead, an accidental crutch had been introduced, much to Alana’s dismay. 

Abigail and Will bonded.

She knew too much of what her father did for a living, but no one other than she and Will knows. It’s the secret that grounded them, brought them together in a way that left Will looking down at her with adoration that was only half-way his own. He loves her the same way Garret Jacob Hobbs loved her. She loves him more like a mentor rather than a father, but he simply accepts it.

Their odd relationship triggered a tight surveillance until this day, with Dr. Bloom making sure that codependency doesn’t fester between them. It never has. Abigail is a bright young woman who has just started attending college in Baltimore, who is dating a guy neither Will nor her mother like, and has plans to visit Florida with her girlfriends during Spring Break.

Will is good for her health, but Alana isn’t so sure that she’s good enough for his. She says so while they take a walk along the clearing behind Will’s house, Abigail chasing and being chased by the dogs a ways ahead.

“Bold of you to let Abigail house-sit,” she says. She crosses his arms over his chest to keep her hands warm. “Langley’s always been good with providing people for that.”

“I felt like she’d appreciated some time to herself.” Will pushes his glasses further up his nose. “Plus, the dogs know her and my old sitter retired last year.”

“And you’re okay with her staying all the way out here? By herself?”

“She’s smart and there’s no place safer.” Mostly because Abigail knows her way around guns, and she would have no problem using any of his shotguns or rifles if the need arises. “Everything’s set to code, Dr. Bloom. She has her own bedroom, and everything should be sufficient for two weeks, so long as she doesn’t throw any wild parties.”

“And the alcohol?”

The twist of Will’s mouth doesn’t feel like a smile on his face. “Under lock and key in the cellar.” He doesn’t consider himself an alcoholic, but Beverly insists that he’s well on his way to becoming one. The look Alana gives him is a reprimanding one but doesn’t otherwise comment on it.

They stop walking after a while, watching Abigail play catch with a branch she’s found on the ground. Like this, bundled up in layers and her hair tied up in a loose ponytail, she looks younger. Sunshine makes her prettier than she already is.

Beside him, Alana stares up at his face with a thought swimming close to the surface. He waits for her to talk and when she doesn’t, he turns to look at her shoulder. “Is there something else, Dr. Bloom?”

“You called him Alexander,” she says, clenching her jaw. He isn’t sure what to name the expression she wears when she says this.

“Better than saying Dr. Lecter all the time.”

“And better than saying Dr. Bloom all the time?”

“You’re my psychiatrist. He’s not.” Will offers her an awkward smile, recalling the reason why social calls aren’t something he actively pursues, especially with women who awaken a sense of romantic feelings in him. He’s terrible at dating.

“Either way, I may end up taking advantage of this sudden comradery,” she says, her severity softening around the edges. “I hope you don’t mind.”

“Do you intend to have him spy on me?”

“It’s not really spying when you’ll be working with each other. With your permission, of course.” She untangles her arms and adjusts her scarf. “I’m worried,” she confides, and her kindness is something that never ceases to make him breathless. “You shouldn’t be taking on field assignments.”

“I passed the psych eval,” he defends, albeit weakly. Last night’s nightmares are too fresh to give him any sort of confidence. “And the physical. Although, skimmed it would be a more proper way to put it.”

“Do you feel unstable?”

The question is simple enough, but the undercurrent of emotion holds the same weight it does whenever she speaks to Abigail. Will buries it, this spark of hope that weakly clings to his bones like the cold around him. Alana is just a genuinely caring person, he tries to reason. That book has been closed before he even got to open the cover.

The only response he gives her is a tight-lipped smile and a weak nod of his head. Yes, he does feel unstable, and he will not lie to his therapist about it.

“Will...”

“It’s only two weeks,” he says. “Clean job.”

She stares at him and momentarily looks like she’s going to hug him, but changes her mind at the last second. Better to keep those bridges between them aflame. “Alexander won’t mind seeing to anything you may need,” she says. Her voice wavers. “He’s good at what he does.”

For a brief moment Will entertains the thought that Alana might know who Hannibal truly is, but she would never have agreed to any of this if she did. She’s far too righteous and honest to do such a thing.

Walking over thin ice is something that has never bothered Will; it comes with the job. Lies and deceit are his everyday bread, and it isn’t difficult to thread his way through this complicated web. Alana doesn’t know about Hannibal, and neither does she know that Abigail knows about the nature of Will’s work. 

Right now, standing in this field, Will has almost forgotten that he’s playing a role rather than himself. He’s almost forgotten that not everyone knows everything. Those who know must act like they don’t, and those who don’t must act like they do. Wear a mask, perform, and hope for the best.

Alana takes her leave at noon, claiming that she’s meeting a colleague for lunch at a cafe just outside of town. She hugs Abigail goodbye and wishes her luck, before doing the same for Will. The embrace, to his surprise, holds no sort of affection on his behalf.

He and Abigail have cold cut sandwiches for lunch.

Afterwards, she heads into her room to unpack while Will pulls whatever articles of clothing he deems wearable from his wardrobe and sets them on the bed.

Nobody in the Agency is ever expected to dress like James Bond, especially not field agents. The idea is to blend into the surroundings and be as invisible and unobtrusive as physically possible. He’s seen people go undercover as beggars for weeks at a time, living on the streets and under bridges in order to sell the disguise. 

One time, Will paraded as a young Englishman staying at a youth hostel in Bucharest. It had been the first and only time he’d dabbled in recreational drugs, partied all night and got himself arrested for vandalizing public property. He was released four days later, his partner busting him out and flying them back to America with a bonus Romanian weapons dealer in tow.

But of course the one mission that would require dressing up to blend into the social elite would be assigned to him.

Jeans, two dress slacks - both in black, flannel, several t-shirts, a handful of button downs. There’s a strange assortment of ties that don’t match any of his shirts, blazers that don’t match his pants, and a gray coat that is probably the nicest thing he owns. He rummages through the back of the closet and finds an old dinner jacket that smells of dust and mildew, and decides that a quick visit to the dry cleaners will get it presentable.

Gathering everything in his arms, Will takes his choices to the laundry room where he puts his sheets to dry and clothes to wash.

“Do you even own a suit?” Abigail asks, leaning against the doorframe as Will shuts the dryer’s door. “You’re probably going to stick out like a sore thumb next to Dr. Lecter.”

“I have a dinner jacket.” He straightens up, hoping the thing doesn’t wrinkle too badly. “I’ll look presentable.”

“Yeah? By whose standards?”

“Clearly not yours,” he says, walking past her and into the hallway. “How’s your room?”

“Cozy. I’ll probably put up curtains to block out the sunlight.” She says so thoughtfully, but there’s something careful in the way she holds herself. “And I wouldn’t want to wake up to the sight of Bigfoot standing at the mouth of the forest at midnight.”

Nodding his head, Will shrugs a shoulder. “Bigfoot doesn’t wander this far east.” Her incredulous laugh makes him smile. “I’ve got spare rods in the shed if you want me to install curtains before I go.”

He watches her shift her weight from one foot to the next, and Will can understand her uncertainty. Asking him to modify her bedroom would be like making it a permanent space in his home. He may not see it that way, or mind it for that matter, but the trepidation is valid.

“I would like that,” she finally says, scratching at her forearm. “If it’s not too much trouble.”

Will assures her it isn’t. “Nothing to do until the laundry’s done, anyway.” Being able to do something with his hands is a welcome distraction.

The curtain rod he pulls from the shed is old and rusted, and he quickly wipes it down before bringing it inside with a drill and a pack of screws in tow. He brings the ladder in on the second trip.

Abigail sits on her bed and makes curtains out of the spare sheets Will keeps stacked in the laundry room, and he doesn’t ask where she gets the thread and needle from.

They both work in comfortable silence as sunlight pours in through the large windows, bringing out the vibrancy of the pale blue walls. Walls that are bare and Will can imagine them - too easily, in fact - being covered by picture frames and other miscellaneous stuff. Maybe Abigail will decorate the night tables at some point, making the space all her own.

“You’ll come back, won’t you?” she says just as the drill stops. “The assignment’s pretty simple.”

Will puts a hand on top of the ladder for balance and uses the other to test the strength of the hooks. When neither hook budges and he is satisfied that it’ll hold a suitable amount of weight, he scratches his chin. “I always come back.”

“Until you don’t.” Neither of them look at each other. “Dad used to say the same thing every time. And, to be fair, he did come back, he just did so in a thermos.” No humor graces her words, making her come off as far older than she is. “Strap a gun to your ankle and suddenly you feel unstoppable, like you’ve got nothing to lose.”

“This time it’s different,” Will says. “Your father and I were going after a dangerous organization and the odds of getting killed were high even by the Agency’s standards.” He forces himself to meet her eyes, to hold them even though they’re brimming with unshed tears. “I can’t… vouch for any other job, but I can assure you that I’ll come back from this one. Alive,” he adds for good measure.

Abigail doesn’t look convinced, but lets the subject drop with a resigned sigh. “Promise you’ll take me fishing when you get back.”

“I’ll teach you how to make lures first. How’s that?”

“Sounds good.”

The conversation is interrupted by Will’s phone vibrating in his back pocket, and he’s unsurprised to see Hannibal’s name on the screen. It’s a miracle the man hadn’t called earlier, and Will tells him just that when he picks up. The answer is an amused one, and they exchange short pleasantries before Hannibal lets him know that he’ll be at Will’s house at 5:00 to pick him up.

Will blinks in confusion when he realizes that’s only three hours away.

“Day’s gone by pretty fast, huh,” Abigail says after Will’s hung up and they’re threading the makeshift curtain through the rod. “Shouldn’t you put your clothes to dry?”

“Machine’s still going.” He climbs up the ladder one more time to fit the rod in place and adjust the curtains until they’re evenly spaced. “My turtles were faster than that thing.”

“You had turtles?”

Job done, Will begins cleaning up. Rather than taking the tools back to the shed, he sets them in his bedroom where they won’t be bothersome while he’s gone. Anything to not add layers again. 

Abigail follows like a shadow.

“When I was a kid,” he says, “I lived near the shore with my dad, so I guess it was the obvious pet to have. I think we had parakeets, too.”

“Difficult to imagine you with anything other than dogs.”

“I reached a point in life where I decided that turtles didn’t make very good organic furnaces.”

“At least turtles don’t shed on everything you love.”

Will’s laugh is short. “Yeah, but the phrase says nothing about turtles being man’s best friend, does it?” With Abigail’s grin he nods, satisfied with an argument won. “I’ll start making them dinner.”

The following hours blur together in a puddle of sounds and sickening anticipation.

Clothes in the dryer and bed dressed, Will leaves a turkey to boil over the stove. He moves around and packs his personal effects, feeling a pang of anxiety when he remembers that his identity won’t be delivered to him until he reaches Austria. He feels naked without a fake passport resting in his bag, but he’ll have to make do and trust the Agency’s call.

When the meat is done, he prepares hearty servings for his dogs with leftover rice and whatever else is in the fridge that might spoil that Abigail won’t eat. He serves it into bowls out on the porch and promises to bring them inside before he leaves.

Back in the house, he sees Abigail settled down on the couch, leafing through a book whose cover he doesn’t recognize.

“Dinner?” he offers, but she only shakes her head.

“Going out with the girls tonight.” There’s a beat before she adds, “I’ll make sure to be back before nine.”

Will nods and leaves her to it.

The hour looms ominously over his head as he walks into the bathroom and locks the door behind him. 

He tries and fails to calm his shaking hands when he turns the knobs on the wall, making the water too cold for him to handle. Hissing, he adjusts it enough to be this side of scalding. He only remembers to take off his glasses once they’re speckled with water.

The company has proved to be a welcome distraction, making him forget about the crippling anxiety currently turning his stomach in violent knots. If he could somehow hire someone to do this for him, if there is anyway to persuade Prurnell to let him go, he would do it without a second thought.

The burn on his skin offers some sort of relief, although short-lived. He scrubs every bit of him, removing dust and sweat and flecks of blood that only exist in his vivid imagination. He washes his hair, stands under the spray in hopes that it will rinse this all away.

Milky and dead eyes are what await him the moment he shuts his eyelids, the ghoulish image of Garret Hobbs gazing up at him with a disappointed shake of his head. He speaks words Will can’t hear, but it makes no difference. In the fantasy, Will is the one who plucks away the nails with detached calm. He’s the one who slices and carves his masterpiece, his playing card, until the game is lost.

_Until the building is collapsing and he’s running through too-tight corridors; until he’s shot, stabbed, and wounded beyond what he can handle. Until he can no longer feel pain or care to take another breath; until he’s embraced his death, uncaring of the empty life he leaves behind._

It isn’t until he’s throwing up that he realizes he’s hyperventilating, body trembling violently when he collapses to his knees to empty out his stomach. He sobs into his hands, willing his lungs to breathe and his limbs to react.

Will sits in the tub until the worst passes, leaving him cold and dazed. All he wants is to sleep, but even that will be plagued by terrors he can’t hope to fight and stay alive. A yawning void of pure hopelessness opens up in his chest, stretching him out past the event horizon for an eternity.

Time passes, but it is unreliable.

Eventually, he pushes himself up on wobbly legs and rinses the tub before stepping out.

Will trims his beard and combs back his hair to let it dry into something presentable.

He’ll come back. Not in a thermos, but as Will Graham.

He gets dressed in the laundry room, pulling on a pair of beige slacks and a salmon colored button down directly from the dryer. The rest he folds neatly, pairing up socks and placing them with his underwear. He carries the clothing up to his bedroom, where he dumps them into his luggage and zips it shut.

The front door opens and he barely hears Abigail giggle before a swarm of paws over wood overpower the sound. One of the dogs bark and she shushes whoever it is.

Taking the cologne Beverly had gotten him last Christmas, he dabs a bit of it behind his ears and wrists before heading into the living room.

Abigail is sitting on the floor, doing him the very big favor of toweling down the dogs. They’re all rushing about around her, some of them nuzzling her side and others offering up their bellies to be rubbed, and she’s nice enough to give all of them attention no matter their demands.

It’s when Winston pads up to Will that she realizes he’s there, and her eyes widen at the sight of him. “Wow,” she says, her expression impressed. “You look presentable.”

“Thanks.” For what, exactly, he doesn’t specify.

He prepares the two of them a cup of coffee while pointedly ignoring the clock over the stove. They drink it leaning against the counter, side by side, in silence.

Hannibal arrives some time later and Will allows himself to become numb, forcing down the panic that wants to overwhelm him again. He opens the door and invites him inside, delaying the inevitable.

“Coffee?” Will offers. “It’s pretty early still.”

Hannibal nods while he works off his layers, hanging up his coat by the door and making Will double-take at the sight. It’s the most casual he’s ever seen him, a pair of black pants and a dark green pincheck shirt. The first button is undone, and Will feels a surge of relief smack into him. By all means, the man looks every bit as well put as he usually does, but his wardrobe inspires ease. Makes him look far more approachable.

“Hello, Dr. Lecter,” Abigail greets when Will heads into the kitchen to prepare one more cup.

When he steps back out, he finds them engaged in a conversation Will tries to pick up on. It takes him a moment, even after he’s handed Hannibal his mug and is thanked for the hot drink.

“Dad owned a Marlin rimfire,” Abigail says, bringing her feet up on her couch while Hannibal takes a moment to drink.

“An excellent choice.” Hannibal crosses his legs where he sits across from her, making himself comfortable despite the dogs nosing at him. He doesn’t seem to mind and even pats Buster’s head. “Personally, I find the Nosler’s range to be far more efficient, more balanced.” He turns to face Will. “Do you hunt, Will?”

The question takes him off-guard, making him lick his dry lips before he can answer. “I, uh, no. Not really. I have a Remington but that’s mostly for anything that comes into the backyard.” He gestures to the rifle mounted over the fireplace. “I wasn’t aware you did.”

“A hobby I seldom partake in,” Hannibal says. “It’s been years, but I believe it’s much like riding a bike.”

“You don’t exactly forget how to,” Abigail completes with a small smile that borders on melancholy.

Will leaves them to their conversation and returns to his room to get his luggage.

He slips his laptop under the bed and puts the hard drive away in the safe inside the closet, inputting the code and locking it. Next, he switches his smartphone for an older flip-phone and deposits it into his pocket. He activates the motion sensor lights from outside, making him feel slightly better about Abigail staying here by herself.

On a notepad, he writes down emergency contacts, including the numbers of his nearest neighbors. 

Carry on slung over his shoulder and luggage rolled out, he places the notepad on the kitchen counter along with the house and car keys. He finds that the mug he’s given Hannibal has been washed and hung to dry. With a final sigh, Will grabs his thermos and walks into the living room with his things in tow.

“Ready?” Hannibal asks, getting to his feet and offering to take Will’s bags.

Will refuses, perfectly capable of carrying them himself, and nods his head. “As I’ll ever be.”

The luggage fits comfortably beside Hannibal’s in the Bentley’s trunk. He watches with dismay as it’s closed and locked, solidifying the fact that this is it.

The setting sun casts Wolf Trap’s white backdrop in lovely shades of lilac and pale pink, clouds rippling low in the sky. Lack of pollution always creates a spectacular scene, one Will enjoys watching whenever he’s home in time to catch it.

This evening, it’s Abigail who stands on the porch, looking up at the sky with a soft hint of awe on her face.

“You’ll come back to her,” Hannibal says, his voice as soft as the chilly breeze around them. It makes Will’s hairs stand on end. He smells of Alana’s perfume.

Will doesn’t answer, walking away from the car to say one more goodbye to his dogs. They whine at him, as if they know that he’s going away, but he assures them with loving scratches behind the ear that he’ll be back in no time. He promises that Abigail will take good care of them, and that they should take equally good care of her.

Lastly, he embraces Abigail, properly this time.

He holds her close, drinking in and taking with him the warmth she allows to be shared. He is not her father, but reminds himself that he’s promised to love her just as much.

_Over one hundred agents with families._

Du Maurier’s words come back to him, then. His coldness had only extended to what he perceived family would feel like, not the actual thing. Standing here, holding the only person he will bleed for reminds him that he’s twice as vulnerable as he had thought to be. 

His selfishness would be his ruin, and it will one day cost him dearly.

“Be safe, okay?” Abigail says as she pulls away, offering a weak smile while pushing her long hair behind her ear. “Call if something’s up.”

Will nods, allows his hand to cradle the side of her head. “You call Alana if you need anything. She’ll be here as quickly as she can.”

Abigail lets him go, taking a step back as he turns towards the car.

Hannibal is watching them with a hint of serenity, most likely analyzing every hitch and breath exchanged between the two of them for either his unofficial record or Alana’s. Will truly dislikes psychiatrists, especially fake ones.

No one says a word as they get in the car, Will taking a moment to wave at Abigail one more time.

They don’t leave until she’s closed the door behind her.


	5. The Roles

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He doesn’t really know what he expected out of spending time in Hannibal’s presence, but him reading a book or fiddling through random articles on his iPad definitely wasn’t it. At one point he even puts on earbuds and dozes off to whatever music he enjoys. The experience is underwhelming.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let's play a game of "spot the references".

Curiosity has never been a big problem for Will, be it as a child roaming the sandy shores of his home collecting bottle caps while his father fixed boat motors, or as an adult. His ability to not only look but see the machinations of people’s minds had turned him off completely by the time he got to college. The simplicity of his classmates both bored and tormented him, pushing him into a state of mental hibernation that was only awakened the moment the Agency welcomed him into their ranks.

Will wouldn’t go as far as calling it repression, but now, sitting in front of Hannibal Lecter at an airport in Munich, he’s ready to crack the man’s skull open just to see what the hell is inside of it.

While the minimal amount of conversation since leaving Virginia has been a given, the sensation of holding onto the leash of the elephant in the room has left Will frayed. Casual words aren’t what he wanted or expected, but a more physical representation of what Hannibal is.

It’s a rookie kind of way of looking at things. After years of serving in the Agency, Will knows that hacking a system doesn’t take the form of dozens of neon numbers scrolling down a screen like in _The Matrix_ , and that British spies don’t normally wear tuxedos and total their Aston Martins in pulse-pounding car chases.

He doesn’t really know what he expected out of spending time in Hannibal’s presence, but him reading a book or fiddling through random articles on his iPad definitely wasn’t it. At one point he even puts on earbuds and dozes off to whatever music he enjoys. The experience is underwhelming.

When they do engage in conversation, they’re having brunch at a deli two hours before the final flight to their destination. The assignment isn’t brought up, and instead they talk about books.

After mentioning his inclination towards science fiction, Will recommends three of his favorites. To his surprise, Hannibal answers with “I have the pleasure of keeping a copy of each in my personal library.”

“You seem like someone who would go for classic lit,” Will says, knowing better than to judge by the man’s apparent elegance. “Aliens and spaceships?”

Hannibal takes a drink from his coffee, and he doesn’t look too happy about the contents. Will doesn’t blame him. “Science fiction is, in itself, a spectrum. I find the portrayal of society as it’s either destroyed and rebuilt interesting, especially when it evolves to suit the needs of the protagonist, be it in a positive or negative way.” He takes a bite from his sandwich, chews, swallows, dabs a napkin to his mouth. “I wasn’t aware I’m not allowed to enjoy both genres.”

“I’ve read Homer’s epics.” The crunch of a baked potato chip being chewed rattles his head. “Actually, I’ve gotten through a few pieces.” Useless information, but it’s the only thing he can think of saying in order to push on the conversation. “The Divine Comedy, Paradise Lost.”

Hannibal’s phone begins vibrating where it rests on the table and it goes ignored. “One might dabble on other things, but a preference will always be a preference.”

“And what’s your preference?”

Tapping a nail against the phone screen, Hannibal takes a moment. “I enjoy all genres.” Will takes his words as the allegory they are meant to be rather than by their literal meaning, because it’s difficult to picture Hannibal picking up a book on teenage vampire romance. “I find they all have very different things to offer.”

“Fair enough.”

“The Left Hand of Darkness?” Hannibal asks, almost smiling when Will nods. “Dune? The Mote in God’s Eye?”

“So you’ve read your share after all,” Will says, taking a sip of his orange juice. Hell knows what possessed him into taking a bottle when he’s eating chips and a tuna sandwich. “Good choices.”

“How about Across the Universe?”

Will thinks, but the only bell the title rings is a Beatles song. “Never heard of it.”

“Then I recommend it for purely self-indulgent reasons.”

“Sci-fi is usually a self-indulgent hobby.”

“Perhaps. Albeit a riveting one.”

The following hour is spent throwing titles back and forth, from horror to crime fiction and the occasional high fantasy. Although Will doesn’t bring it up, by the time they’re ready to return to the gate, he’s sure that Hannibal has the entirety of J.R.R. Tolkien’s works neatly organized in his library.

Like this, it’s easy to forget the nature of their professional relationship. Discussing books over a meal and waiting for the connecting flight to Austria, all the while Hannibal is dressed so casually with a pair of aviator sunglasses on his hair almost seems like they’re friends taking a much deserved vacation. The thought borders on annoying, but Will forces himself to see it as a blessing. This way, they’ll blend in.

When the plane begins boarding, after Will has shown his boarding pass and Hannibal has done the same by swiping his phone under the scanner, the attendant asks them to step aside for a brief moment.

Will fidgets as people continue to file in, anxiety beginning to wrap its cruel fingers around his spine. He manages to keep as calm as feasibly possible, trying to sell his agitation for impatience. He’s jet-lagged and probably looks like shit after the long flight from Maryland to Germany, which makes it all the more believable. Nobody spares him more than a passing glance.

Beside him, Hannibal stands slouched with his arms across his chest. A perfect picture of ease.

The attendant doesn’t approach them again until everyone’s boarded and only a small amount of people linger between this and the adjacent gate. She’s a small woman with too-round features and a sharp smile. 

She speaks to Hannibal in German and he nods, gestures Will to stay where he is before he follows her to the booth ten feet away. From under it, she pulls out a large envelope and hands it to him with a polite smile. Hannibal says something, shakes her hand, and returns to Will’s side with a nod.

“We’ve been upgraded,” he says. “We’ll be flying business class courtesy of the airline.”

Will looks down at the envelope clutched to Hannibal’s side and nods. “Awfully nice of them.”

“Being a former pilot has its perks.” Hannibal says this with an archly smile, and Will is quck to turn away. He refrains from asking if he flew planes before or after posing as a professor.

When walking down the jet bridge Hannibal adds, “Our friend arrived in Canton of Geneva six hours ago.” He places the envelope inside his jacket and zips it up when they reach the plane.

Neither of them talk until they take their seats. There’s a lot more leg room.

“Having a chat with him is out of the question then.” Will pinches the bridge of his nose under his glasses before buckling up and leaning back.

“Making our rendezvous far less complicated.” Hannibal orders a glass of wine when the stewardess walks by, and Will asks for a glass of water. “We may be able to leave Vienna quicker than anticipated.”

“To where? Switzerland?”

“If that’s where the adventure takes us.” The lilt in Hannibal’s voice reeks of amusement. “I’m not opposed to extending our trip, dear Will.”

Will stares at him, desperately trying to claw away at the layers of carefully concealed secrecy. “Two weeks,” he fruitlessly reminds the man. “Two weeks and I’m going back home no matter what anyone does or says.”

Hannibal doesn’t answer, doesn’t even acknowledge the statement. 

He thanks the stewardess when she returns with their drinks and places Will’s water on his tray. “Drink up, Will. It’s best to stay hydrated.”

***

Under the cover of white, Vienna looks like an image taken from the pages of a fairy tale.

In the weak, early afternoon sun, the city is alive and bustling with activity. Its old architecture contrasts with the modern day way of life in the most poignant of ways, with gothic spires towering above electronic stores and coffee shops, and motorcycles idling over cobblestone roads.

The sight of St. Stephen’s Cathedral draws an appreciative hum from Will, its massive doors open and lined with guests dressed in black and white. France may be known for the supposed romantic atmosphere, but just an hour after landing, Will can guarantee that Austria would set it to shame. The traffic is heavy enough for him to get to see the bride descend from her carriage.

His opinion doesn’t change after they reach the more urban parts of the city, where bike racks line the sidewalks and cars are double-parked in front of shopping centers. To him, it makes it all the more charming.

Then, there’s Hannibal.

A side glance is enough to tell Will that the man belongs in this kind of place. During their stay Will has no doubt that Hannibal will blend in with unsurprising ease, dissolving into the local population as if he were born and raised just in the outskirts of town.

The compartment between the front and back seats of the car opens, pulling Will out of his thoughts when a parcel with his last name on it is delivered through it. He takes it, and the tinted window quickly shuts again. There’s nothing else written on the tan envelope, but Will is certain of what it is.

Hannibal watches as he pries it open.

“Our IDs,” Will says, pulling out the passports and neatly folded instruction letters. Now that he has them at hand, he stalls.

Sensing this, Hannibal gently takes the documents from his hands.

He leafs through them, carefully cataloguing and nodding minutely to himself as he sets what he’s already read aside. It takes him a while, but when he’s done, he divides the documents into two stacks and offers one to Will.

“Do I even want to know?”

“I’m afraid you don’t have much of a choice.”

“That was a rhetorical question.” Hannibal only answers him with a nod.

The passport gives him the name Adam Brandon and a British citizenship.

“A notable professor of astrophysics in the University of Oxford,” Hannibal reads, and Will hates that he can _feel_ the amusement the man is radiating. “Divorced, lives an hour off campus and drives a 2002 Volvo.”

“I don’t have an accent.”

“I hope you’re familiar with astrophysics.”

“I can name the planets of our solar system,” Will says, wanting to kick the car door and scream. Of course they won’t make this easy for him. “Who the hell are you?”

Hannibal opens his passport again. “Jacob Andernach,” he says. “From Denmark.” He closes it and puts it down.

Will feels cheated because, unlike him, Hannibal looks the part. “What business do we have at such a high profile boxing match?”

“I’m a professional gambler. Married, a degree in law which I never took advantage of.”

Ironic enough. “Let me rephrase that. What business does an astrophysics professor have here?”

Hannibal doesn’t answer right away, taking a moment to look at the paper in his hands before putting it down with a thoughtful breath. “I’ve brought you with me. I’m having an affair, it seems.”

“I’m your wingman.”

“You’re my lover.”

To Will’s chagrin, he can picture Katz in his mind’s eyes grinning from ear to ear. In fact, he knows that whoever is on this assignment must be having a field day at the chance to humiliate him. There are hundreds of roles, dozens of personas they could have created for the two of them, but this is what they’ve chosen to put him through.

“Will this be a problem?” Hannibal asks, looking at Will as if they’re simply discussing the weather, making him feel terribly childish. A con man is doing better at accepting a job than him.

“No.” The word tastes sour on his tongue. “How long have we been together?”

Hannibal watches him for a few seconds more before turning back to the letter. “Three years. We own a vacation home in Florence.”

“Of course we do.”

The car turns into the main square and reveals a gray sky, one that promises yet another layer of snow.

Will tries not to think about it too much, that there’s nothing wrong with this. Were they a man and a woman, this type of arrangement still would have been made and taken in stride. Like it or not, the situation they’ve been given is natural and believable, and there is no reason other than his own self-consciousness for him to request a rewrite.

“You shouldn’t worry, Will,” Hannibal says after a long moment. He turns to cast Will a wink that leaves him rooted to the spot. “I’m afraid you’re simply not my type.”

A hysterical laugh bubbles in the pit of his stomach, but Will manages to clamp it down. Instead, what he makes is an aborted choking sound. “Do you mean mangy and slightly unstable?”

The transformation that touches Hannibal’s face throws him off. Brief and barely noticeable, the often stoic psychiatrist turns into a gambler with a hopelessly hedonistic lifestyle. His eyes go soft, his mouth strangely alluring, and the easy posture of his body against the seat becomes hypnotically inviting. He’s a livewire, and Will needs to run fast and far. “Acquiescent.”

The corner of Will’s mouth twitches but not in the form of a smile. He faces frontward, glaring at the tinted window and willing himself not to linger on what Hannibal means. It’s obviously a taunt, but it sits uncomfortably in the back of his mind.

They have roles now. He’s no longer Will Graham, the loveless hermit with a pack of dogs who works for Counterintelligence. Now he’s a professor on a romantic getaway with a man who is very much married.

“I met you through my wife,” Hannibal says, putting all of the documents except the passports back in the parcel. “She’s aware of the truth but has decided to turn a blind eye for the sake of appearances. No one expects an eccentric gambler to be entirely faithful, however.”

Will thinks of Alana, probably talking on the phone with Abigail between classes.

“Appearances and financial stability?” Will refuses to look at him, angry that he’s taking this so personally.

“I hope you’ve brought suitable clothing for our stay.” He doesn’t sound like he expects Will to say yes.

“The only suitable thing I own for this kind of profile is a dinner jacket. Even that’s starting to sound cheap.”

Hannibal tuts. “Indeed. If you’re to walk on my arm, we’ll need to get you some presentable clothing.”

For once, Will won’t feel guilty about maxing out the Agency’s cards.

They arrive at their hotel ten minutes later and Will braces for the quiet whirlwind he’s about to step into. From this point on, there’s no going back.

The car doors are opened by valets and both parties climb out, Will immediately burrowing into his coat when the bitter cold cuts at his skin. He goes around the car and hurries to keep pace with Hannibal, who is already strolling into the lobby like he owns the place. He only looks back to see their luggage being hauled out of the trunk.

Will stops walking the moment he steps inside the lobby, taken aback by the sheer size and luxury of it. Online images will never do the place justice, he decides, as it’s the sort of place that has to be seen to be believed. Outside, the building is elegant and charming in its old-century architecture, but inside, the old blends with the new in an array that is a feast for the eyes.

The area is relatively crowded but not enough to be overwhelming, having caught the check-in rush.

Hannibal guides them through the maze and all Will can think about is the remnants of dirt that probably clings to the bottom of his shoes soiling the marble floors. Nobody is looking at them, nobody is judging them, but that doesn’t remove the prickling feeling that he’s being watched.

At the front desk, Hannibal does the talking. He checks them in while speaking in a flurry of fluent German, and Will is mildly intrigued as to how many languages the man can actually speak. He does hear the name Andernach being given, but two years of high school French haven’t gotten him that far in life.

The desk clerk gives them two gold key cards, which Hannibal takes with a gracious thank you.

“I feel indecent,” Will says when they’re standing in the elevator, pacing back and forth like a caged animal. Their suite is on the seventh floor.

“There’s no need to worry. Tonight, we’ll go shopping after dinner.”

The elevator continues its slow ascent. Will counts his breaths.

“Dinner?”

“I took the liberty of making us reservations.”

“Being seen together.”

Hannibal gives him a quizzical look. “Jacob is a very sociable person who enjoys spoiling those he holds dear.” He unzips his coat and removes it, draping it over his arm now that the air’s turned warmer. “Besides, we can’t exactly stay in and order room service for the upcoming two weeks. People will talk.”

“What’s the worse they can say?” Will squares off his shoulders, keeping his attention on the elevator door. “That you can’t keep your hands off me long enough to go out for dinner?” Hannibal’s eyes on his back are a near tangible sensation.

“Not when you’re such a cold lover.”

Will turns to face him. “Excuse me?”

“You act as if you’re here against your will.”

“Well, technically, I am.”

Hannibal closes the already tight space between them but keeps a few steps away. Both his hands are hidden beneath the fabric of his folded coat, and Will fears that he’ll draw a weapon at any given second. He’s perplexed by the intrusive thought, knowing full well that Hannibal can’t be armed, but that doesn’t stop Will from taking a step back and molding his back to the elevator wall. The man’s very presence is massive and imposing.

“I would like to try and make this experience as pleasant as possible for you, Will.” The words carry a double entendre, and Will wishes they didn’t. “Would you allow me that much?”

Pulse heavy in his throat, Will nods jerkily. He can be an adult about this. He’s done far worse before.

“Like I said. Just keep it professional.”

“Of course.”

When the doors open, Will is the first one out, putting a safe distance between them as he makes his way through serpentine hallways. The red carpet is plush under his shoes and he’s hit with yet another wave of inadequacy, but he stomps it down and keeps going. The key to this role is confidence. Once he learns to master that, he’ll be impenetrable.

At the end of the last hallway stands a double door, its color a rich red and handles a polished gold. The constant switch between modern and antique is vaguely off putting, the contrasts so sharp it soon becomes difficult on the eyes despite the intricate finesse and beauty. Everything in the hotel is a constant contradiction and Will doesn’t bode well with that. He prefers the simpler, even hues and simple cohesion of his home; it’s easier on the senses.

Hannibal hands him one of the key cards and Will does the honors of opening the door.

Albeit sleek and modern, the suite’s colors are soft and light in palette, minimal in design. The glass windows are large, wall length, facing the bustling city below.

There’s a small kitchen equipped with tools Will never thought would be used in such an area, a pantry, and what’s safe to assume is a smart fridge if the screen on the door is anything to go by. 

He walks into the lounge with a television bigger than he could ever find affordable, no doubt with an impressive surround system. The leather furniture is soft under his fingertips, and he can easily see himself catching naps here if the need ever arose.

Beside the lounge, in a private niche facing the window, is an office space with a desk and lamp. 

There’s a closet bigger than his bathroom in Wolf Trap, a master bathroom bigger than his bedroom, fully equipped with a hot tub and separate shower.

Then, there’s the master bedroom.

It’s too big, Will decides. It lacks the coziness that makes the bedroom a place of safety. No sprawling fireplace, atrocious amount of soft pillows, ambient lighting, private veranda, or plush carpet can make this place comfortable for him.

Regardless of this, the suite is a place of dreams.

“Lovely, isn’t it?” Hannibal asks, walking right by Will to take the chair before the desk and flip it over. “I hope you find it suitable.”

Before he can reply, he notices Hannibal give him a warning look and touch his mouth. It takes a moment to realize what he means and then Will nods, slipping into the mental state he needs to be in for a moment. “It’s more than I expected,” he says, words curling around an accent that isn’t his own. He feels ridiculous, and the odds that someone will be able to identify it as fake are high. 

While Hannibal sifts through the lounge, he moves into the kitchen and scours through cabinets, sinks, fridge, and bar stools.

“Only the best for you, darling,” Hannibal calls out from across the suite, and Will refrains from rolling his eyes.

“You know, Jacob, we would have been just as comfortable in a cozy inn near the gardens.” When he deems the kitchen clear of bugs, he moves into the bedroom.

“So far out of the way?” Hannibal joins him shortly after, heading into the adjoining bathroom. “Here, we’re right in the middle of it.”

“Human watching?”

“Humans are fascinating.”

“Stars are fascinating.” Will pushes up his glasses and scratches at his beard. There’s no space between the bed and the floor, so he lifts the mattress to verify the area between both things. He finds nothing. “I don’t see you getting us reservations outside of the city to see them more clearly.”

“I’m a very selfish man.” Hannibal sounds impossibly close, and Will tenses when he feels hot air along his neck. “Why else do you think you’re here?”

Will doesn’t step away, but he doesn’t look at him either. “Did you just smell me?” He barely remembers to keep the accent.

“Difficult to avoid.” Fingers touch his shoulder before Hannibal turns away. “I really must introduce you to a finer aftershave. That smells like something with a ship on the bottle.”

Unsure if the banter is meant to be in character or an honest opinion, Will stalls, decides he’s offended either way. “I keep getting it for Christmas.”

“Friends? If so, you need better ones.”

“From your wife.”

Will’s smile feels smug on his face, especially when he realizes that he’s forced Hannibal to think of a comeback.

“She always did lack finesse,” he eventually says, turning back to Will and stepping closer. Although, Will wouldn’t call it stepping, more like prowling. “Among other things.”

“A dick?”

“Charm.” The look he gives Will is pointed. “A sense of humor, however rude yours may be.”

“Why’d you marry her, then?”

“We’ve had this conversation before, Adam.”

“Well, I want to hear it again.” Will takes a defiant stand, arms crossed over his chest as he meets Hannibal’s eyes. Hannibal, who keeps closing the space until they’re toe to toe. “Simply put.”

“I believed I loved her.”

“Not anymore?”

“I still do,” Hannibal says, surprisingly soft, as if he regrets their arrangement.

A pang of _something_ hits Will’s chest, forcing him to suck a lungful of air. “The same way you love me, huh?”

“Make no mistake.” The words are cruel and cutting. He’s a statue, inhuman. “All I have for you, my dear, is a lust I’m unable to sate regardless of how many times I take you.”

When his hands begin to tremble, Will unthreads them and shoves them in his pockets. The hurt he feels is so sharp his gut churns, making him nauseous. Sweat clings to his forehead and he needs to run, run away, run far, and never come back.

“You remarkable boy,” Hannibal says, and he’s _Hannibal_ again.

The phrase is enough to rip Will from the soil he’s planted his false roots in. “W-What?”

“The room is clear, Will. No microphones, cameras, nothing.” There’s a knock on the door. “That would be our luggage.” He leaves the room without another word, and doesn’t come back in. Will can hear him fiddling in the kitchen.

Standing beside the bed, Will pushes back the violent sob that claws its way up his chest. He takes off his glasses and throws them on the sheet, finding that his cheeks are wet with tears he’d been unaware of. First comes mortification and humiliation, and later comes the affirmation that this has been a very big mistake.

Being well and healthy is easy when one’s stepped away from the trigger. Will had been relatively okay while sitting behind his desk, calling orders for people in the field to follow. He had been okay when he didn’t have to slip in and out of thoughts that weren’t his own, when it wasn’t his job to emulate other people.

The testing procedure for gauging his psychological profile was incorrect. He can’t do this, not when he immerses himself so completely that he’s no longer Will Graham.

He sits on the edge of the bed and grips his hair.

This time it was simple enough. He’s simply a professor who is sleeping with a married man. The worst had been that he didn’t feel remorse for the nonexistent woman, just betrayal at being told he wasn’t loved. The play is practically harmless and shouldn’t cause any serious complications, but this assignment won’t be enough for the Agency. Once he signed the dotted line, once he was reactivated in the field, there was no going back.

The odds of him dying outside of his own mind are very real, and nothing terrifies him more.

“I was unaware of how powerful your potential for empathy is.” Hannibal rejoins him with a cup of coffee and places it on the bedside table closest to Will. “To be able to immerse your being into a person who is not real by mere suggestion.”

“Overactive imagination,” he mutters, taking the cup and nodding his thanks. “Back in the day I was only able to do it when looking at pictures.”

“You’ve evolved.”

“That’s one way to put it.” The coffee is rich and warm in his mouth, but it helps nothing with the tension in his muscles. “You’ve read my profile.”

“Who were you?” Hannibal pulls up a chair and sits in front of Will, crosses his legs in a casual manner that somehow comes off as professional. “When that woman killed Garret Jacob Hobbs?”

“I was me.” He refuses to think back to that mission while sober or fully awake. His dreams do enough revisiting. “Although I didn’t want to be.” Will’s words had been cruel when certain death had stood in front of him. He hadn’t felt human.

“Facing emotions becomes easier when the mind you’re wearing isn’t your own. A defense mechanism you’ve enacted. One you have perfected.”

“Not exactly.” Will grimaces at the crack in his voice. “Adam’s being difficult.”

Hannibal angles his head, a tiny gesture Will would have missed had his attention not been set on his chin. Then, Hannibal’s lips purse in thought. Small tells, Will realizes, that are strictly for his benefit. Will is a lot more receptive when he’s not talking to a marble statue, but he wants to tell Hannibal that he’d rather talk to an inanimate object than a human most of the time.

“You’re being reluctant,” Hannibal concludes. “You’re afraid.”

“Damn right I am.”

“A professor who is victim of his whimsey, whose worst problems are so banal they’re easily solved. Normalcy frightens you.”

“I don’t know how to be normal,” Will says, dropping his unshielded eyes to his feet. “If I blow our cover the entire mission goes down the drain.”

“Our lives would be in jeopardy. Including Abigail’s.”

Will allows their eyes to meet for a brief moment before looking away again. A hot and ugly feeling writhes in his chest. “Abigail has a mother to care for her. She doesn’t need me.”

Hannibal nods his head once. “You need her more than she needs you.”

The words shouldn’t sting when he’s known this much since the beginning. “At what time is the reservation?” he says, fumbling for his glasses.

“Two hours from now.”

Standing up from the bed, Will takes the cup of coffee. It’s still hot, but no longer steaming. “Thank you.”

“You are most welcome, Will.”

Too tired to put his coat back on and head out into the balcony, Will chooses to retreat into the lounge until it’s time to get ready. Hannibal doesn’t follow.

***

Vienna’s nightlife isn’t different from any other Will has ever experienced in passing. It has its assortment of nightclubs and restaurants, theaters, stores that cater to every kind of budget, and the occasional vendor selling warm sweets to fend off the winter chill.

The wrought iron street lamps bathe the whitened sidewalks in a somber orange glow, making the snow glisten when caught just right.

Dinner had been a quiet affair. 

The food was good and the servers friendly, and Hannibal had proved himself to be enjoyable company as he managed to keep a conversation going. His topics were light and amusing, mostly retellings of awkward encounters with patients outside of work hours and how he had backpacked through Asia during his younger years. 

Will hadn’t been too much of an active participant, but he nodded and drank the words with as much gusto as he did with his wine. Hannibal hadn’t seemed bothered by it, occasionally stopping to ask how the food was and if he’d like his glass refilled.

Enough alcohol had introduced Will to the conclusion that Hannibal is as charming as everyone paints him to be. His smiles are easy and his laughter tasteful, both of which try to coax Will out of his steel shell. It doesn’t, not entirely, but Will finds that his shoulders are no longer stiff to the point of soreness.

They slipped back into their personas the moment they had left the restaurant. Walking shoulder to shoulder, Will tried his best to look like he was having a swell time. Next to him, Hannibal looked like a man positively enamored while pretending to hold on to a shred of decorum. An impressive spectacle considering how stoic Hannibal usually is.

Shopping had not been a quiet affair.

An absent mother meant that Will had to grow up picking his own clothes, his father too busy keeping them afloat to fuss over something so insignificant. His sense of style had been a trainwreck until high school, when he had decided that in order to date girls he’d have to not look like a hobo. 

Elisa Stamos had told him he didn’t need to dress nice for girls to notice him, so he asked her to prom.

He told Hannibal this because he felt he should add something to their mostly one-sided conversation.

“How did that go?”

“Disastrous,” Will said as a tailor took his measurements. “She arrived with me and left with, uh, Johnny Molina. They got married a couple of years later.”

“Her loss.”

By the end, Hannibal hadn’t been happy with the fact that the tailor would need two days to get Will’s suits delivered. He wasn’t rude, but he kept pointing out insignificant flaws that no one would notice. He would tell Will to stand up straight or to speak up if there was something that didn’t sit well with him, and he almost told him that the only thing that didn’t sit well with him was Hannibal acting like an overbearing mother.

An hour later, they walked into a smaller boutique which Hannibal declared ‘casual’. A blazer was worth more than Will’s property.

After declaring that he didn’t have the conscience to truly max out the Agency’s card unless absolutely necessary, Hannibal had offered to gift him the clothing. That resulted in a minor squabble, Will claiming that he didn’t want to be on the receiving end of gifts purchased with dirty money.

The reluctance died out when Will saw his reflection clad in designer clothing, making him feel worthy and - dare he say it - handsome.

He handed his stack to the woman working the floor, letting her know that he would be taking it.

Hannibal had been put off at not having seen Will dressed so nicely, but he said nothing as he paid and requested for the packages to be delivered to their hotel lobby.

“What time is it?” Will asks, kicking up freshly falling snow as they walk along the square. He isn’t drunk, but the wine has given him a pleasant buzz.

“A little over ten.” Hannibal has his gloved hands tucked in his coat pockets and seems to be busy looking around at the people enjoying themselves. “Are you tired?”

“Still got some juice in me.” It’s easier than admitting that he’s having a good time and wouldn’t like to call it quits just yet. “Are those pretzels?”

There’s a cart stationed by the side of the road, and Will identifies the food by smell rather than sight. He isn’t hungry and he had dessert at the restaurant, but the temptation is far too great. Besides, the cart is crowded, which means the product must be worth a try.

Will buys one and Hannibal purchases a paper cone of baked Bavarian nuts. The sight of him sitting on a bench and picking at street food is amusing.

“We’re expected to attend a dinner party tomorrow,” Hannibal says, and his words are careful. “I’m to meet up with an informant.”

Having to pencil in meeting points after a map has been constructed is advised against, but the responsible thing to do is to have it reported. He appreciates Hannibal letting him know several hours beforehand. “Remind me when we get back. I’ll let Beverly know.”

He had been hoping to be given at least a day to acclimatize to the words written on his profile, to learn about connections and read up on his subject of expertise, to avoid risking accidental exposure. The smallest slip can and will cost them dearly.

Will hurries with his pretzel, wanting to head back as quickly as possible, but Hannibal is still eating at his own leisurely pace. He’s people watching, Will notices. Specifically, he’s watching a group of people carrying large containers and black boxes closer to the center of the square.

Intrigued, Will watches as well. More people join in and it turns out to be a live band settling down to play.

“This is a nice,” Will says. He sits closer to the edge of the bench and hunches in on himself to fend off the cold. His breath fogs up his glasses.

It takes the band a long time to get set up but when they begin to play, they attract tourists and locals like magnets. People form a massive wall and next to him Hannibal sighs with what sounds like irritation. He looks to Will, silently telling him to follow, before standing up and heading for the crowd.

Untrusting of big groups of people but unwilling to stay alone, Will joins him.

The music cycles from upbeat numbers to slower pieces, both traditional and foreign alike. A man and woman sing most of the songs, but the majority are instrumental. The crowd either claps or coos depending on the mood the entertainers set, and Will finds himself utterly enthralled by the show.

Within the circle that’s been marked off by rope, people are invited to dance. Professionals tango and bystanders do some botched attempt at jazz, but all in all, the atmosphere is alive in that cold winter night.

The song changes and Will is momentarily lost to his thoughts, trying to recall where he’s heard it before. A brief second later he realizes that the man is singing in heavily accented English, but it’s clear enough for him to identify the soft swells of a song his aunt would play whenever Will and his dad would visit.

The recollection prompts a smile, those days having been some of the few Will had truly enjoyed as a child. Times had been simple when the only pressing matters were to ace his History exam and clean his bedroom. He remembers gumbo in scorching summer afternoons.

“Can you dance, Will?” Hannibal asks, his breath hot against Will’s ear.

He shivers at the play of sensations but doesn’t pull away, talking into Hannibal’s ear instead. “You mean, besides the electric slide and the first half of the macarena? Not really.” When he pulls away to look at him, Will sees the tiny mischievous smile touching Hannibal’s features.

He tenses so severely he fears his muscles will cramp, but one of Hannibal’s hands on his lower back and the other taking his left hand in his forces him to calm down. The touch anchors him, and Will doesn’t want to think about that, or the natural progression of events that have led them here.

“Just follow my lead.”

“I’m not making a fool of myself.”

“You won’t,” Hannibal says, already guiding them through the sea of people. “I won’t allow it.”

Will wants to ask him how he plans on doing that, but finds that it’s better to trust the man to keep his word. Funny really, how Will can trust the promise of a man who lies for a living.

Nobody pays attention to them, even when they’re the only two men standing face to face.

Will’s heart lurches when Hannibal takes his hand and pulls him close, but not enough for their chests to touch and he’s endlessly grateful for the illusion of space. His other hand rests low on Will’s back, and Will instinctively places his own on Hannibal’s shoulder.

The first step to the side nearly sends him into a panic, but a quick squeeze to the hand and Will is following a second later. Hannibal takes another step, and Will continues to hesitate to imitate him before doing so. 

Each heartbeat spent between them is awkward, but they’re _moving_ now, however slowly and out of time.

Will keeps his head turned to the side, embarrassed that he’s probably making someone who dances wonderfully look like a graceless ass. 

Hannibal doesn’t appear bothered. In fact, he looks content to just sway from side to side. He’s patient, granting Will the opportunity to become familiar with his own feet and their close proximity. He eventually closes his eyes and hums along to the song, and Will takes the moment to really look at the man.

There’s no hint of annoyance or regret, and Will struggles to decide whether he’s dancing with Hannibal or _Jacob_ , because the serenity that softens the attractive wrinkles of his face is the same that touches his own when he would think of Alana. Maybe not exactly, but there’s enjoyment and satisfaction there and it lights a warm fire in Will’s gut.

They’re just dancing.

There is no reason for Will to feel threatened. He can hold his own. If anything happens, Hannibal is there to watch Will’s back.

_Enjoy yourself, Graham. It’s the little things._

With renewed vigor, Will tries to keep up by stepping a little closer.

Hannibal opens his eyes when he notices this, smirks before quickening his step for Will follow. 

They make it a game, a challenge for Will to break boundaries and adapt to the pace and tempo, to keep in step with Hannibal’s swift dancing. He manages to do so, although with the occasional slip, but he otherwise corrects his movements and cramps Hannibal’s style a little less.

The smile this earns Will is dazzling.

As the song continues for longer than it is, Will discovers that the discordant noise he’s hearing is his own laughter. His chest feels as light as his feet when Hannibal turns them in perfect tune. His fingers zing when he realizes that they’re no longer being held at arms length, that rather than a hand, Will’s entire arm is wrapped around Hannibal’s shoulder in the same fashion that Hannibal’s arm is draped around his waist. 

They’re almost nose to nose, with only Hannibal’s self-control keeping Will from doing anything stupid. And Will would do it, feeling like he feels right now. Relaxed and happy, Will would gladly press his mouth to Hannibal’s without sparing it a second thought. But they aren’t lovers and they aren’t friends. They’re co-workers dealing a deadly job. Besides, Hannibal has Alana waiting for him back home.

_Nobody expects him to be faithful._

Will isn’t that kind of man. He would never cause Alana any sort of hurt.

Snow continues to fall, settling and glowing on Hannibal’s shoulders. People are looking at them now, but they either wink or smile or look quickly away, embarrassed to be caught staring.

Hannibal just pulls him closer, catches Will’s eyes for the briefest moment before looking someplace else to keep him comfortable.

It’s a beautiful distraction and Will takes it. He takes the nice feelings of being held and courted, of dancing in the falling snow in the square of a foreign land. He takes them and stores them in a small box, hides them under lock and key in the favorite room of his mind palace.

Fear and anxiety can wait until morning. He can regret and hate the warmth he feels radiating from the ticking time bomb in front of him once they’ve parted. Now, he’ll wade into this stream and breathe.

With their final turn, Will sighs, thrilled by the openness on Hannibal’s face when the last words of the song bring it to a close.

_Because I like you... under my skin._


	6. The Bluff

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Have you ever heard of the Chesapeake Ripper?”

Light causes the back of his eyeballs to sting, worsening the headache that pounds against his temples. The suite’s windows do little to help against the hangover that has Will feeling miserable, the sun gleaming off the snow and brightening the open floor plan considerably.

The coffee tastes strange. The eggs, cooked and seasoned to perfection, rest oddly in his mouth. It’s almost as if he’s trying to eat around cotton balls that suck up his saliva, making it difficult to swallow or enjoy his brunch.

Will vaguely wonders if he’s coming down with something. His limbs are sluggish and heavy, like the aftereffects of taking a hit. Not entirely unpleasant, but the absence of a reason why he feels like this is deeply unsettling.

Stabbing a sausage and popping it into his mouth, Will leafs through the morning paper without hope of understanding anything. The people on its pages are foreign to him, logos unknown across colorful ads and two-page spreads. He comes across what he guesses is the weather, and the forecast looks as bleak and snowy as the rest of winter. Summer has never been so ardently missed.

Towards the back he finds a frenzy of images that get a grimace out of him, having expected sports articles instead of the gruesome spectacle of uncensored carnage. The displays are appalling and in bad taste, and Will has to remind himself that he’s not reading the Virginia Gazette, where even the macabre is kept vague and tightly monitored.

Between the image of a car crash and a man hanging from a tree - his face blurred, however uselessly - is a crisp photo of what Will hesitates calling _art_.

Neither fine nor abstract, the arrangement incites feelings of awe and wonder, the need to photograph and admire far too overwhelming to blame reporters for their indecency. 

A shiver runs along his spine because he is looking upon a performance that he has seen only several times before through third-rate tabloid websites.

“Have you ever heard of the Chesapeake Ripper?” Will asks when he hears shuffling behind him. He puts down the folded newspaper and slides it across the table. Out of the corner of his eye he sees Hannibal turn it towards him to take a look, and the invading sight of fabric catches Will’s attention

His sight crawls up Hannibal’s arm and he’s surprised to see the man dressed in a very nice tuxedo, tailored to perfection and clinging to the slopes and corners of his body like a well-fitting second skin. He’s wearing a bow tie and it’s only noon.

“The serial killer?”

“Isn’t it a little early to be dressed up?”

Hannibal manages to shrug using only his mouth, and Will marvels how the man can exceed in microexpressions. “I’m to meet someone in an hour.”

“Should I be jealous?”

“Never,” Hannibal says, his smile sweet. “Why do you think this is the Chesapeake Ripper?”

The incredulity in Hannibal’s voice makes Will stop and wonder. This shouldn’t be the Ripper, the odds are impossible. Yet, there is no mistaking an artist’s brush strokes for another’s. “It’s his design,” he says, no more than a murmur.

“The Agency isn’t interested in this kind of profile.”

“Call it a personal hobby.” Will leans back in his chair and reaches for his mug. “Puzzles keep me entertained, and this case sparked my interest a couple of years back. He’s like a modern day Zodiac, but, uh, better, almost. Smarter, elegant, passionate.”

“You have odd hobbies.” Hannibal says so playfully, but the remark has Will shifting uncomfortably. He’s been told enough times what a freak he is, and he doesn’t need the reminder. “I would like to hear what you have to say on him sometime.”

“I’d bore you.”

“Unlikely.” Hannibal pushes the newspaper back towards Will. “Psychiatrists are often hungry for insight of a person’s mind.”

“Make me a conduit.” He’s been a subject of interest in the psychiatric circle for a long while, but never quite like this. They all want to see inside his head, but no one’s wanted to use him to see inside others’. “It would make for interesting conversations,” he concedes. Hannibal isn’t his therapist, and while his curiosity may be off-putting, he isn’t oppressive or judgemental.

Nodding thoughtfully, Hannibal disappears into the bedroom and reappears shortly after with a small box in hand. “Why would he be in Austria?”

“Why wouldn’t he?” Will nudges away canvases and brings forth those that make something tick, those that have some sort of meaning cleverly hidden in plain sight. “Freak coincidence, maybe, but it would explain why he disappears for years at a time.”

“Hunting abroad.”

“Gathering inspiration,” Will corrects. He puts down his fork and picks up a sausage link with his fingers instead. “He’s exotic.” Bite. Chew. Swallow. “The East Coast can only inspire so much creativity.”

“Interesting.” Hannibal places the box on the table. It’s small, around the size of a ring box, and it’s made of red velvet.

“What’s that?” Will watches as a blunt fingernail caresses the lid.

“Your equipment.” Inside it is a pair of clear earbuds. “Two way speakers and microphones that allows us to keep in contact when we’re unable to use phones.”

Will takes the box and inspects it. He’d never used something this sleek during his last field mission. “Got any stun pens stashed away, Galahad?”

“The vault I will be visiting is located within a dead zone. Communication will be interrupted for approximately two hours,” he explains, putting his own buds into place. “I will meet you at the lodge at four. If I’m not there by then, contact the Agency within an hour and return to base.”

“Who are you meeting with?”

Hannibal hesitates, debating whether or not to give a name. “An acquaintance under the name of Randall Tier.”

“You’re lying.”

“Out of necessity,” Hannibal says, pulling at his coat. “Once this has been done, if prudent, I’ll relay the information to you. Don’t see it as a lack of trust, Will, more like an act of protection.”

“For me, or for you?”

“For both of us, rest assured.”

Will doesn’t like the sound of it, but it’s a necessary evil he knows too well. Secrecy is the only currency that matters in the field.

***

Scarce or not, Hannibal’s presence lingers over Will’s shoulder even when the man tries to be unobtrusive. However involuntary, Hannibal can be a lot like a black hole - invisible to the naked eye but his gravity pushes boundaries, drawing in anyone who stands too close. Being alone for the first time in two days is a relief.

Will showers, washing away the crust in the corner of his eyes and last night’s chill. The water pressure is strong enough to hurt, but a second later he starts finding it relaxing. Hot and punishing against his back, Will allows his sore muscles to unwind for the first time in over a week, having slept on the couch only worsening their tension. The dinner party stands in his mind like an oppressive monolith, but he can worry about that later.

He washes his hair with shampoo that isn’t his own and neither is it the hotel’s complimentary bottle. The odds that Hannibal threw out everything cheap in the immediate area wouldn’t surprise him. It smells of apricot, and Will considers it nice in his nose. So nice, in fact, that he finds himself humming.

A lot of things had been expected from last night but the end had been a surprise he wouldn’t call unpleasant. _Unorthodox_ would be a better word. Will had never danced with another man before, and never would he have thought that doing so would be enjoyable. Of course, the heady taste of wine had still been on his tongue and his belly had been full with exquisite food. It’s a wonder they hadn’t fallen into bed afterwards.

Not that Will wants to sleep with Hannibal, but at the time it had seemed like the natural sequence of events to follow. He certainly wouldn’t have been against it. Hannibal is unconventionally handsome and decently charming, warm to the touch and so very human.

_And you’re touch-starved and lonely. Desperate for human contact no matter where it comes from._

Will fills his lungs with enough air to hurt, and slowly exhales.

Hannibal is a criminal and a liar, and he’s Alana’s boyfriend. Will shouldn’t want to be the center of his attention - romantic or sexual - when his distrust is fed with every intake of breath. Hannibal is dangerous by definition, and fuck if that doesn’t get Will going.

_Alright, so, less of a touch-starved man and more like a horny teenager._

Too much proximity. He’s losing himself in a role that’s purely fictitious. His mind is playing filthy tricks on him, kindling desires that aren’t his own and pushing him to accept them. Will tries to push them away but he can’t, he can never shut it off, his imagination feeding images and scenarios that make him weak at the knees.

_A Christmas party. Alana beams at him as she hands him a gift. The chandelier’s light catches on her wedding band. She says something smart and funny and Will laughs, but a hand on his elbow pulls him away from her. Away and into the dining room where he’s manhandled onto the dining table, Hannibal - in his gorgeous tuxedo - forcefully pulling down his zipper and taking him into his mouth._

Will gasps like a man drowning, forcing down the fantasy with shaking hands and shutting off the water. He refuses to let his mind get the best of him. He’s stronger than this.

Stepping out of the shower on unsteady legs, he pops back two aspirins and gets to finishing up. The erection that begs to be eased is ignored in favor of concentrating on trimming his beard. He doesn’t shave it off completely, knowing that doing so will knock a few years off him.

His hair gets towel dried, slicked decently to the side although loose curls make their way over his forehead. It won’t do to look too well put, he decides. Adam is, after all, just an unkempt professor with a wealthy lover. Let Hannibal be the one to look like his pristine self.

Will walks into the bedroom and eyes the clothing Hannibal set out for him. It’s one of the pieces purchased last night, leading him to believe that either the front desk brought it up this morning or Hannibal went down to get it himself. Either way, it happened while he was still passed out on the couch.

Not thinking too much on it, Will moves on automatic.

Midnight blue boxer briefs that are a little too tight, considering the little problem between his legs at the moment, and a matching button down whose fabric is soft enough to sleep on. 

Will tries to ignore the amount of money he’s wearing, the _gifts_ he’s wearing, and fails at it. Suddenly, Adam is less of a lover and more of an accessory to show off to the vapid elite. He’s a statement, an item that flaunts Jacob’s wealth and position among the wealthy. He’s a boytoy.

_Adam is. Not you._

He goes into the kitchen to pour himself a finger of bourbon before finishing up.

The pants are appropriate for the occasion, not too tight but just enough to clearly demonstrate the shape of him. The tie is fashionably slim and he’s able to tie it - after a few failed attempts - out of memory. The dinner jacket accents his waist and broadens his shoulders, the collar framing his neck and its lapels the same rich satin as the tie. Oxford shoes complete the ensemble.

All black, for the exception of the shirt that is a few shades towards blue.

Will looks himself over in the mirror and is unable to keep his eyebrows from lifting in appreciation. He looks good, better than ever, and that gets an aborted smirk out of him. Were Beverly to see him like this, she’d never let him live it down.

From atop the bureau he takes his watch and puts it on before grabbing the tiny velvet box and opening it. He slips the earpieces into place and, as expected, they’re imperceptible when he looks in the mirror again. 

He notices a note written on a stationary pad, the elegant cursive contrasting the blocky text of the hotel’s brand. Will puts down the box as he reads the short amount of words, almost rolling his eyes.

_Smell is what stirs our anticipation for dinner._

_The most delicious meal deserves the most exquisite scent._

Being compared to food is definitely a new one.

On the table is a small, red glass vial, and Will is ready to bet that it costs a small fortune. The smell that caresses his nose once he uncaps it is soft and flowery, almost like a woman’s perfume, but there’s an unmistakably masculine undertone to it.

Determined to no longer fight the inevitable for today, Will dabs a discreet amount behind his ears and on his wrists.

***

_“Status report, Mr. Bond,”_ Beverly orders over the phone, dripping with amusement. _“I gotta say, you’ve got most of the unit turning heads. Did Lecter dress you?”_

Will turns his frown towards the window, taking in the vast expanse of snowed over countryside. There’s nothing but white for miles on either side of the rough road. “Keeping tabs on us?”

_“You know it. Nothing in the room, don’t sweat it.”_ There’s a hint of suggestiveness Will chooses to ignore. _“But we tapped into the surveillance cameras in the lobby. Saw Lecter heading off a couple hours ago.”_

“Yeah, he said he was meeting with an acquaintance of his. Randall Tier.”

_“Way ahead of you. I gave Hannibal a call when I saw him leave all shady like. Turns out Tier is ex-MI6, got dropped when he turned his gun on a fellow agent.”_ A pause, then, shuffling papers. _“He failed the psychological evaluation for reinstatement after his forced leave. Guy went underground and started doing some work of his own.”_

“What kind of work?” He’s almost afraid to know.

_“He sells what he knows which, admittedly, isn’t a lot. He’s a conspiracy buff.”_ She snorts. _“Works full time as a museum curator in Paris. Thinks the US government and Russia are working together to bring back a sabertooth tiger to place it back on top of the food chain. Or something along those lines.”_

The road under the tires smooths out, and snow-capped mountains begin to loom up over the gray horizon. Will scratches his chin, thoughtfully. “Why would Hannibal meet with him if he’s a bust?”

_“Anyone’s guess.”_ There’s a moment of silence as she organizes her files, and says something to someone he doesn’t catch. _“In other news, we’re keeping close tabs on Budge. Nothing too shady thus far, just some sightseeing and bank transactions we’ve put traces on.”_

“Anything of interest?”

_“You mean, aside from the money he withdrew hitting five bank branches before reaching him? He’s transferred a significant amount to an anonymous client. Jack’s scrambling a team until you and Hannibal are able to jump countries.”_

This isn’t what Will wants to hear. “Cutting our stay short is going to tip someone off.”

It takes a moment for her to answer, and the same sinking anxiety weighs heavy in his stomach. _“The trip’s not getting cut short, Will.”_

“My two weeks are non-negotiable.”

_“You know how unpredictable assignments can be.”_ Beverly sounds apologetic. _“Look, we’ll just cross that bridge when we get there, okay? For now, focus on getting that dirt. With any luck, you and Hannibal can cut this short.”_

“If not? The Agency isn’t sending me on some wild goose chase all over Europe.”

_“Like I said. Cross it when we get there.”_

Will shuts his eyes and sighs. He expected complications, but not this kind. This could easily be resolved without his help but it won’t, simply because the Agency won’t allow it. It grates on his nerves.

“At the moment, I got nothing other than what Hannibal mentioned,” he says. “I’m on my way to a social call where we’ll meet up after he’s done with Tier. We’re, uh, _solidifying_ our… status in the social circles.”

_“A date?”_

“No.”

_“With the way you two are dressed, sounds totally like a date.”_ Will doesn’t answer her, but it’s the kind of quiet that promises a lashing out if she pushes too far. _“Fine, whatever, not a date. I’ll keep you posted if anything new pops up on Budge. Also, you’ll have contact information for the match by tomorrow morning.”_

Will nods, ignoring that she can’t see him. “Actually,” he interjects before she can end the call, “there’s something I want you to look into.”

_“Name it.”_

“There was a murder last night a few blocks from the hotel that got my attention.”

_“And?”_

“I’ve seen this kind of profile before.”

Another bout of silence, this time a thoughtful one. _“You want me to look up if there’s a matching MO? Will, this could take forever.”_

“Not if you know what you’re looking for. This was a very specific kind of kill.”

There’s a sound over the line that’s lost between a gasp and a laugh. _“You can’t possibly be referring to who I think you are.”_

“Ring up the FBI if you to; Interpol. I want to know if there have been any incidents overseas that mimic the Chesapeake Ripper’s MO while he was off the grid.”

_“That sounds like a waste of resources.”_ That’s Jack speaking through her, and Will can almost see his aggravated frown. _“You think the Ripper’s involved with Budge?”_

The Agency loves when he makes jumps he can’t explain, but only if there’s concrete evidence to back up his claims. Here, he’s got nothing to go on other than a hunch. “If he’s not…” He lets the sentence trail off. “I know a calling card when I see one.”

The weight behind what he’s implying is a dangerous one, so he doesn’t voice it knowing full well that Beverly is following his line of thought.

_“I’ll see what I can do.”_

The call ends and Will slips the phone into his jacket pocket.

Coincidences are rare and anything but in this line of duty. More often than not these things are orchestrated from a safe distance, a show put together by an able master tugging at their puppet’s strings. Will has taken on the role enough times to understand the machinations behind it, shifting the play of light to reveal a whole new landscape uncharted by his mind.

If the Ripper were in league with Budge, he’d be smelling the exquisite Swiss cheeses. Instead, he’s been brought to Austria, sniffing at the trail the Agency has tried to erase from the sand with as much diligence as their skill provides.

The thought that he and Hannibal have been followed settles heavy in the back of his mind. Getting caught in the crossfire of two serial killers - an alleged cannibal and a potential biochemical terrorist - is as daunting as both forces working together. These types of creatures never hunt in pairs, but the Ripper is a new kind of monster all his own. The best of the best are still unable to put a name to what he is, adding an extra layer of danger and uncertainty to this already dubious assignment.

Topping a hill, Will can see the lodge come into view. It stands against the snowy mountainside, its browns and oranges standing out against the pure white that threatens to engulf it. 

The ground level holds no means for privacy, the walls made of glass and displaying the ostentatious interior without a hint of modesty. The second floor, while sporting large windows, casts the illusion of shadows upon its guests. A chandelier shines through the doors and out into the balcony.

Expensive cars and limousines are parked in a semblance of order a few miles away, within sight but nonobstructing. Snow isn’t falling, but there’s a thin layer of it on their hoods.

Outside, valets slouch against fenceposts and, as their car draws closer, Will can see them sharing a cigarette.

The ample estate is as beautiful as any other luxury the common folk are unable to own, and just as empty in feeling. It most likely belongs to a banker whose life will be cut short by a disease. His wife would be seeing a younger man. Children estranged.

Will takes a steadying breath when they drive up, knowing that there’s no more time to wallow in worst-case scenarios or internal monologues on how to perform under his pseudonym. The plan is set, the names memorized. Vague outlines of how these people are connected blink like neon markers in his memory.

_Just a job,_ the voice inside his head whispers. Time to store Will Graham in a warm, dry place.

Slipping on his kid gloves, the car door opens.

Will steps outside and burrows into his coat, giving the valet a disinterested nod when his driver hands over the invitation. He’s asked to spread to arms and is briefly patted down by a brute of a man who eventually nods and gestures him to head into the foyer. Given the go-ahead, the valet jumps into action.

“Good evening, Mr. Brandon,” says the receptionist, a young woman who looks too overworked for her age. Another woman politely asks for his coat. “Please place your finger over the pad, if you’d be so kind.”

Removing his gloves and neatly folding them into the coat pocket before it’s taken away, Will does as he’s asked. He watches his information show up on the tiny screen alongside his fingerprint, stored away in the case of an emergency.

“Will Mr. Andernach be joining you this evening?”

Will nods, gives an aborted smile. “He’ll be running a bit late.” The words are clumsy on his tongue.

The receptionist swipes at the screen, stores the information. “The weather is expected to worsen,” she explains, offering an apologetic look. “I do hope he will be able to make it before the roads become intransitable.”

“I hope so, too.” Spending the evening without someone to feign conversation with will be troublesome.

A short flight of stairs leads him down onto the main floor, the area wide and spacious and accommodating a few dozen people that drift along a sea of glitter and diamonds. Champagne glasses bubble in elegantly gloved hands, tumblers of liquor held firmly in bulkier ones. Pearls are pinned in expertly styled hair, and rare gems glimmer in pressed cuffs. 

There’s enough money in the room alone to feed a small nation, but Will feels no remorse. He can’t allow it. He breathes in the expensive perfumes and the savory scent of food in the near distance. Shoulders back, chin high, mouth relaxed into a shape that isn’t a smile but neither is it a frown. Boredom is what he wants them to see, something that makes him unapproachable.

Whether it works or not, he’s unsure, but nobody bothers him.

Will keeps to the walls, walking around the groups of people who converse amongst themselves over topics he finds no interest in. Most of them he doesn’t understand, their language too hurried for him to make sense of.

A band plays in an adjacent room, the smooth swells of jazz subdued by the chatter and laughter. He lingers close to them, next to a table sorted with hors d'oeuvres and cocktail drinks, and casually slips his hands into his pockets.

The piece in his ear is silent. The clock is ticking.

“It’s dangerous for someone so handsome to walk around without a chaperone,” says a voice that’s distinctly American over his left shoulder. “Or without a ring on his finger.”

Will raises a brow and turns. “Given that my hands are currently out of sight, I take you’ve been watching me for a while.”

The woman looks too simple with her naturally wavy hair and apple cheeks. Only the impeccable makeup and the subtle cues of a designer’s touch along her pantsuit speak of her status and right to be here.

She smiles at him, but it’s the smile of a person forced to put on a mask when the world pummels against cracking pillars. “Only since you walked in through the door ten minutes ago.”

“And you’re here to protect my virtue?” Will says, the teasing hint surprising even himself.

“You’re not my type, wrong parts and all.” She combs perfectly manicured nails through her bangs, bringing them away from her face. “But I might make the exception if you’re able to charm me.”

Her brashness is welcome, Will finds, because it reminds him of Beverly’s brand of flirtation. “Adam Brandon,” he says, holding out his hand.

“Margot Verger.”

“My companion has encountered some sort of delay. He’s usually the one that frequents these events.”

Thin lips work themselves before settling into a bland smile. “Which explains why I haven’t seen you before.” She looks at the table, and the stare is pointed enough to send Will into action. He serves her a glass of champagne.

His memory sifts through the information he’d read between last night and this morning, and while the name rings a distant bell, he can’t put a finger on her profile.

“Tell me, Miss Verger, are you here alone?” Acting or not, Will’s small talk is still crap.

He smooths over that fault with a coy shift of his head, body open to welcome any sort of appraisal. He offers himself while keeping a cool distance all the same which, much to Will’s bewilderment when he realizes, is the same thing Hannibal does. A spider who doesn’t so much lure, but opens the door and politely invites one into his parlor.

There’s an inherent draw towards danger, one often romanticized and sold as cheap harlequin novels. But danger alone isn’t enough. Put a suit on a spider, give it bright eyes and a cruel grin, a sexual appeal, and a charming laugh. Give it a name and suddenly the fly is quartered and served in a full course meal.

Will clears his throat and looks towards the band, almost missing what Margot has to say on the subject. The satisfaction that comes from thinking of himself as a predator is too alluring to make him comfortable within his expensive clothes.

“My brother insists on showing me off in hopes of finding me a man.”

“And you’re not interested.” He nods in understanding, following her when she starts to walk aimlessly around the room.

“Like I said, I might make an exception for a moderately attractive astrophysics professor.”

Will stops walking, fixing her with a stare he quickly turns into one of excited shock. “You’ve heard of me, then.”

“I’ve heard enough,” she says, casting a bored glance around them. There’s less people here by the fireplace. “I’m not much of a space fan, but your articles were an interesting read.”

Will leans against the fireplace and crosses his legs at the ankles. His fingers itch for his own tumbler of whiskey. No one had informed him of any contacts here, suggesting him to proceed with extreme caution. “If it doesn’t concern you, why read them?”

Margot drags her available hand to rest over her stomach, a thumb circling one of the buttons there. “Because they read like you know what you’re talking about, Mr. Brandon. Worth admiring.”

“I appreciate the compliment.”

“However.” She steps closer, well past his boundaries of personal space. He doesn’t flinch or move away, but neither does he meet her eyes. “I’m under the impression that science changes at an alarmingly fast rate. By the time peers are reviewing an excellent piece of writing, the facts have already changed. Infinitesimal at first, but that always does quite a number on the constant entropy of the cosmos, doesn’t it, professor?”

“Such is the wonder of it.” Will almost pushes up phantom glasses up his nose, in need of a way to shield against the scrutiny. “Also the horror.”

“I’ve been doing some light reading on the subject.” Margot takes a sip from her drink, keeps still enough to be mistaken for a statue in the grandiose room. “I really like nebulas.”

“They’re lovely to look at,” Will concedes, mind supplying various names.

“I like what they are. How colorful and peaceful they look while being chaotically violent.”

He picks at her words, tries to tug at any hidden meanings.

Beneath plumes of colorful elements in the endless void space, stars are being born. Incandescent and supermassive, upon first instance, none would be able to tell what goes on within the stellar nursery. Winds of radiation that push the ever expanding universe past the edges of light.

“Nebulae are very good at hiding what’s inside,” he says, cautious and low. “It’s as if they’re sentient, shielding their newborns from harmful nightmares.”

Margot’s stare is steady on him, and he can see that she’s pleased with his words. “Almost as if they want you to look elsewhere.”

Will meets her eyes then, deciding whether or not he should take her at face value. What he sees is subdued rage and tired acceptance, and Will sharply slams the doors of his mind shut. “Fascinating, isn’t it?” he says, his attention drifting towards a man who approaches them.

“Oh, yeah, that’s real fascinating.” The man’s voice is almost shrill in contrast to the rest of the crowd. He sniffs, looks at Margot before turning an amused look on Will. “What is?”

“Miss Verger and I were discussing the nature of my work,” Will says. His words feel sharp on his tongue, too defensive to come off as anything else.

“Were you?” Pale eyebrows shoot up towards the line of windswept hair. “And you are?”

“This is Professor Adam Brandon,” Margot answers, crossing her arms as if to shy away from the throbbing sore that is the man standing too close beside her. “He teaches astrophysics.”

“Does he now.”

“This is Mason,” she tells Will, and he can see the resemblance. The only difference hides in the hue of their blue eyes: one sadistic, the other terrified.

“I’m her brother.”

“I’m aware.”

“A man of science,” Mason says, almost airy as he wraps an arm around Margot’s shoulders and gives it a squeeze, much like a father congratulating their kid for a good game. “I consider myself to be a pioneer in it, too. Robotics.”

Will nods his head, pretending to be interested in what he has to say. “Our work compliments each others’.”

“Truly.” Mason extends his available hand, pats it against Will’s arm. “Tell me, though. Seen any stars lately? If you know what I mean.” He gives Margot a suggestive look, and gives Will the same one.

Inhaling toxic fumes would induce a better time. The very presence of the man is equivalent to trudging through a vat of sludge, drinking it in and filling one’s lungs with poisonous blackness. Will has shaken evil’s hand before, but evil has finally smacked his arm like an old buddy.

“He’s taken,” Margot says. She doesn’t bother prying away from his hold, and the decision not to speaks volumes. “Can’t a man and a woman have a conversation without any ulterior motives?”

“Not with one as handsome as Star Lord here, huh?” Lips curl into a wide grin, eyebrows wagging lewdly. When Will doesn’t return the humor, he drops it and puts up his arms. “Just trying to poke a bit of fun into the party. These old hags are putting me to sleep.”

“There’s a billiard room on the second floor,” Will offers.

“Do you play, Professor?”

“I’m afraid I’m a little rusty.”

“Nothing some lube can’t fix.”

Margot looks as nauseous as Will feels, but she hides it almost perfectly. “Mason, please,” she says. “We’re guests.”

Putting a gloved hand to his lips, Mason shushes himself. “You’re right, you’re right. Wouldn’t want to scare off the swine with our unorthodox way of life and peculiar brand of loudness.” He barks out a boisterous laugh, presses a loud kiss to her temple. “Wouldn’t want to scare ‘em off.”

“You said you were into robotics?” Will says, pushing off the fireplace.

Personal instinct warns him to push the man away and shut him out, to cut off the virus at its source before it infects and takes hold. The drive to perform his task overrides his defense mechanism, opening him up to the carnage of the fictitious world around him. In front of him stand a victim and an abuser, and while he prefers to empathize with neither of them, he knows he has to choose a side.

Middled aged men with wives on their arms, possessive grips and scathing words. An openly lesbian woman paraded around in hope of finding her a male suitor. Strict and obsolete values wrapped in money; it’s a wonder Adam and Jacob were able to slip into the invite list.

As a man in his late thirties, Will is expected to act accordingly. Dismiss her, listen to him. This room is no place for progressive morals so he sheds them with a great amount of difficulty. He makes sure to demonstrate that he’s not comfortable with the decision he’s made.

Margot is left behind, but rather than insulted, she looks relieved. Will watches her retreat towards a group of women who sit around a porcelain swan.

“Do you know anything about robotics?” Mason asks him, his hand resting at the middle of Will’s back before dragging downward and pulling away. “It’s the latest trend in big buck industries. Everyone wants to be an engineer now.”

“I know cars,” Will states, declines the drink Mason offers him.

“Close enough.”

Their conversation attracts other men in the room, mostly due to Mason’s loudness. Rather than feel trapped and cornered, Will allows himself to mirror the confidence and arrogance of those around him, believing the carefully crafted lie of who he is.

He turns away offered cigars with an offhanded gesture of his hand, laughs tastefully when a burly older gentleman - a French senator, he recalls - tells a joke he personally finds offensive. 

Will tells his own stories, fabricated just last night. His trip to Louisiana, deeply inspired by true events of his childhood. He tells about the wife he divorced and why he did so, about summer hunting in Yorkshire and rugby matches in fall.

The men listen to him with rapt attention, fascinated and enamored with the Englishman who speaks with numbers and works with stars. Some of them want to be him, Will finds, judging by the way they adjust their posture to imitate his. Others, much more subtle, want to be with him. This he can tell by the way they keep looking at his mouth, edge closer and stare at his chest, at the curves of his body accented by his suit.

Will takes it in stride, imagining a glass wall between him and these people. They can’t touch him, only hear his words and admire what they can’t have.

A light touch to his elbow startles him but an ocean of relief washes away the hidden stupor when he sees Hannibal standing by his side, holding two wine glasses in hand. Will takes one, aware of the sudden silence that falls over the large group.

“Jacob Andernach,” Hannibal says, offering his hand to every individual present. “I apologise for being late.” To Will: “I hope you haven’t had too much fun without me.”

His words are teasing, almost smug, telling of how pleased he is by Will’s absolute control and impeccable attitude.

“Just enough,” Will returns, putting the glass to his lips and tipping it back. “How are the roads?”

“Treacherous. I’m beginning to regret not hiring our jet.”

“I’d be delighted to offer you gentleman a lift,” says a man by the name of Braginski. He’s short, Russian, and about the only one not actively participating in the previously ongoing conversation.

“No need.” Hannibal puts his hand just below Will’s underarm, allowing it to slowly glide along his ribs, the curve of his waist and the swell of his hip. The gesture is possessive, and a lot of the men present avert their eyes either out of discomfort or jealousy. “Ivan has offered us a room for the night.”

Ivan, their host, is a German politician who fancies himself a good Samaritan, but only for a price. The extension to his hospitality rubs wrong on Will, but he trusts Hannibal not to compromise the situation just yet.

“Thank you for the offer,” Will says, leaning into Hannibal’s side only briefly before pulling out of his embrace entirely. He doesn’t want to ruin the good spirits by making himself too unapproachable.

Next to him, Hannibal knocks back his glass in one go and smiles widely, showing teeth he doesn’t seem bothered by despite their crookedness. “Do any of you gentlemen play billiards?”

“You like playing with balls, Mister?” Mason says. The childish undertone remains ever present, but his loudness has lowered to something average. There’s a challenge in the set of his mouth, and Will tries but fails to see just what the man is trying to get at.

Hannibal cocks his head to the side, amused and friendly. “I do, actually.” He says nothing more, casting Will a silent request to follow him upstairs.

They walk up to the second floor, those who aren’t put off by their apparent relationship at their heels for a friendly match or two. The room where the table is located is heavy with cigar smoke and the grumble of gruff voices. It’s also dark, the walls of deep cherry wood keeping out the last weak rays of the setting sun. A ceiling fixture with elk horns turns on and bathes the floor in pale orange.

“What’s your name?” Hannibal asks as he peels off his dinner jacket and hands it to Will. He takes a cue from the rack on the wall, stalks around the table like a predator.

“Mason Verger.” The man looks intrigued, glasses low on his nose. “I’ve heard of you. You’re lucky I have enough money to take you on.” Mason repeats the notions Hannibal goes through, readying himself to take the man one on one. “Best damn player this side of the planet.”

“If you’re certain you’re going to lose, why not spend your money on something useful?”

Sitting on a stool and watching both men peacock, Will marvels at how effortlessly Hannibal can wear a skin that isn’t his own. There is nothing of the refined gentleman who values beauty and grace above all else. The man bent over the table, cue stick suggestively held between his fingers and ass presented like a trophy, is a creature of raw hedonism. Elegant, yes, but also vulgar in the way he breathes, lewd in the way he holds himself.

“I _am_ spending it on something useful,” Mason says, staring at Hannibal’s rear with a mixture of curiosity and annoyance. “Take the money and buy your boyfriend a collar.”

Will’s cheeks become scaldingly hot, forced to look away when several men present laugh.

The loud click over the table signals that Hannibal’s delivered the first hit. “Perhaps I ought to buy you a muzzle instead, Mr. Verger.” More chuckles. “Your voice is awfully grating.”

“So I’ve been told.” Mason seems to take no offense at the remark.

The game goes on, only interrupted by half-hearted insults from both parties that fuel the good humor of the spectators. Mason is affronted though he hides it well, but Hannibal takes the jabs in stride, unbothered by the homophobic remarks as he continues to win the game by a landslide.

Uncomfortable but safely away from the precipice of panic, Will busies himself with a young man who has - with much effort and hesitation - worked up a nerve to walk up to him and begin a conversation. They keep it light, touching on subjects Will knows a thing or two about, and the young man seems eager to participate in whatever he chooses to talk about. He learns that his name is Matthew just as Mason curses his anticipated defeat.

Will watches the two of them shake hands with some reluctance, Hannibal looking appropriately smug before walking away from the disaster of a man Will has come to loathe.

“I’ve been neglecting you,” Hannibal says, sitting beside Will. “Should we retire for the evening?”

The words say one thing but his tone suggests another. The seduction is so flagrant that Matthew clears his throat and excuses himself, not wanting to intrude on whatever Hannibal has in mind. While grateful for the break in conversation, Will could do without the man being so territorial.

“The night is young.” Will touches a single finger to Hannibal’s knee, and the gesture can be taken for coyness. “We haven’t had dinner.”

“We can order room service.” He says this loud enough for those closest to hear.

“Wouldn’t that be rude? We’d be terrible guests.”

“Ivan won’t mind,” Hannibal says. He deserves an award for such brilliant acting. He sounds agonizingly desperate.

Will looks around the room, from the men who are pretending to not be listening, and to Mason who still stands beside the pool table. Without uttering a word but nodding his head, Will stands up and ducks out of the room with Hannibal on his heels, leaving their bedazzled spectators behind.

Neither does much talking as Hannibal guides them up several flights of stairs, past prominent politicians and company presidents he greets with polite nods and quick words in languages Will doesn’t understand. When they reach their floor, Hannibal takes his hand.

Will wants to protest but doesn’t when his fingers get squeezed, because while brown eyes convey tenderness, there’s a warning simmering just over the surface. It isn’t like he’s lost his touch, either. Being stranded here is far from ideal and Will understands the dangers quite well.

“You look spectacular,” Hannibal says, slowing and coming to a step in front of the door to which Will assumes is their room. “The color does wonders for your eyes.”

They stand face to face, and Will continues to borrow the charisma from the others downstairs. “Quite a number. The cologne was a nice touch.”

“Only the best for you, my dear.”

Hannibal steps closer and Will goes to take a step back, but he’s grabbed far too quickly for him to react. His back is slammed against the door, Hannibal pressed flush against the front of his body as if to keep him right where he is. Hands come up to the door frame, encasing Will all the more.

If anyone were to see them, Will wouldn’t doubt they would take this as an assault with the way he refuses to face Hannibal. He feels threatened, space invaded and violated and he wants to lash out, fight his way out of the hold.

“We’re being monitored.” It’s a whisper against Will’s ear, one that can be easily mistaken for a kiss on the cheek. “They have nothing, but they’re suspicious.”

Will eases when nothing else is done to him, Hannibal waiting for him to relax in his hold. He nods his head and lets it rest against the door with a sigh. “Margot Verger knows something,” he says, bringing up a hand to fiddle with the bow tie. “Which means that Mason knows something, too. Any idea who they are?”

Hannibal crowds him all the more, nearly engulfing him in a suffocating embrace. It’s only then that it occurs to Will why they’re in this position. There are security cameras in every corner of the hallway.

“No, but I suggest we tread with caution.”

Hands grip Will’s waist, tugging him close. “What are—?”

“You honestly look enticing.” Large hands move to slide along the wake of his ass. “It would be a shame to get you out of those clothes.” Will’s bewildered laugh is cut off when Hannibal ruts against him. “Also, your accent is quite becoming.”

The scene seesaws in Will’s mind, torn between reality and their fabricated world. It’s that last bit that tips Will off to this being Hannibal speaking, and not the man he’s pretending to be. This is Hannibal delivering praise onto Will, and goddamn the man for making his knees weak.

“We can’t do this.”

“If they suspect us, we’ll be dead before morning.”

“So, what? We rub one out in the hallway to sell the con?”

Hannibal answers him with a kiss.

Thin, dry lips brush against his with utmost tenderness, a promise of nice things if Will behaves himself.

It ends as quickly as it began, a chaste press that leaves Will starved.

A tense pause stretches between them until caution is thrown to the wind, the itch in his skin wining over the need for self-righteousness. Hannibal’s body radiates heat, and Will is still frustrated from this morning.

_Sell it._

He does his best to do so.

Will touches the sides of Hannibal’s face and holds him still, angles his head to dab another kiss to the curious bow of his upper lip. He smells of wine and peppermint, snow and sweat. The faint scratch of his stubble against Will’s mouth is electric, sparking a thirst that leaves him heaving for more.

Another kiss, just as chaste. Another, with a just a bit more pressure, just to test the waters. Another one, this one more forceful and daring. Yet another one, this one with swabbing tongues and curious teeth and hitched breath and soft moans.

Hannibal wraps his arms around his waist, keeps them pressed impossibly close as they kiss at a languid pace.

There is still control here, however thin it may be. Had there been none, had Will abandoned his reservations, he’d be pushing Hannibal through that door and ripping off his clothes. Will _wants_.

“I arouse you,” Hannibal says, neither question or accusation, simply an observation.

“Please, don’t tell—” _Abigail? Alana? Jack?_

Shame isn’t new to Will. This isn’t the first time his body has acted against his wishes. The mortification comes with him not wanting to stop when he knows he must. His imagination is already doing away with him, gifting him fantasies of what may occur behind the door at his back.

“It’s all right,” Hannibal coos into Will’s ear, reaching for something in his back pocket. “Nothing you will regret.” The door gets opened, but Will is far too gone to see how Hannibal gets that done.

***

Come sunrise, Will is resting on his side, watching the weak rays of light spill across snow through the window. It bleeds into the room, casting vertical slants over dark floorboards, revealing dancing motes of dust that settle over sleek chairs and lamps and bedside tables.

The morning is still, as if frozen by the air outside. The bed is warm. The breath that rustles the curls at the back of his neck is warm, along with the body that molds itself to the curve of his own with only a respectable amount of space separating them. Hannibal’s arm is draped over his waist.

They’re still clothed, dressed down to their slacks, shirts, and socks, and Will both mourns and rejoices that he decided to stop before things escalated further. The bite on Will’s neck and the bruises in the shape of Will’s fingers on Hannibal’s wrist is as far as they got.

He wanted sex; oh how he’d wanted _Hannibal_ right then and there, with his immaculate appearance and stoic features cast aside, replaced by a creature driven solely by hunger. It had turned Will on so much that violence had bubbled underneath his skin. But they stopped. The kisses died away when morality and duty came back kicking and screaming, demanding he pay attention to them.

Hannibal had nodded, caressed his face like one would a lover before letting it go.

They didn’t check if the room was bugged. Instead, they discarded their outer layers and settled into bed, wrapped up in solid and stable arms. There would be no talking and no whispering; just uneven breathing and a desire for things Will refuses to act upon further.

“You’re awake,” Hannibal says. 

His voice is rough with sleep, making the accent deeper and luscious enough to warrant a sigh from Will. He wonders if this is how Alana feels. If so, Will doesn’t have the heart to reveal Hannibal’s identity to her.

“I keep entertaining thoughts that shouldn’t be entertained,” Will says, softly, as if he’ll ruin the illusion of peace if he speaks too loudly. “Like lying for purely selfish reasons.” Lying is his job in the same fashion that lying is Hannibal’s job, but Will has made bridges between his personal life and the thin edge of a knife he walks in exchange for a paycheck. “I want to covet.”

“Both of which are clear indications of your humanity.” Hannibal whispers the words into Will’s ear, allows his mouth to brush it. “Frequent are the times when we forget that we are made of flesh and bone, that we tire, that we want.”

“Humanity explains but doesn’t excuse our tresspasses.”

“The same can be said for every circumstance that leads us to a choice.” The hand on Will’s stomach applies the smallest hint of pressure and serves as an anchoring touch. “An individual is defined by his capability to dissect and afterwards choose the correct plan of action while facing a situation.”

“But the correct plan of action varies from individual to individual.”

“Quite extremely, yes. Which gives us a wide variety of cultures with their own laws, morals and taboos.”

“In which culture is it okay to bang your psychiatrist’s boyfriend?”

The huff of hot hair against Will’s neck is meant to be an amused laugh. “We didn’t have sex. There is no reason for you to lie to Alana, Adam.”

Will blinks, grimaces when the name throws him off. Had Hannibal not reminded him, he would have made the mistake sooner rather than later. 

“That still leaves my desire to covet.” Although, Will finds that coveting isn’t the correct word. He doesn’t want to keep Hannibal. He doesn’t love him or long for him. What Will wants is physical contact, and he wants it from Hannibal.

“Everyone has thought about killing someone one way or another,” Hannibal says, dragging the hand on Will’s stomach upward. “Not everyone has pulled the proverbial trigger.”

“You need to stop touching me.” Damn the quiver of his voice.

“Why?”

“Please.”

Deciding that up isn’t the way he wants to go, Hannibal directs his hand downward. His fingers press into the button of Will’s pants, nudge at the zipper right below. “Let me help you, Will.”

Colossal is the strength Will demonstrates, pushing the questing hand away and escaping the blissful heat of the bed. He’s hard, painfully so, but he refuses to take part in whatever sick game Hannibal is getting at.

“You’re above this,” Will tells him over his shoulder, heading for the bathroom. “You won’t stoop as low as cheating on someone you love. Or, at least, hold in high regard.”

It seems so long ago that Will and Hannibal first met when it truth it hasn’t been. Will is terrified that he can read someone like him, someone who has built entire fortresses around himself. Empathy had meant jack squat when standing in front of Hannibal, and now it’s too easy.

“I would also appreciate if you stopped lying to me,” Will says, turning a confused look on Hannibal. Hannibal, who stares back without an ounce of emotion on his face. “I don’t know what you’re lying about yet but I know you are.” Not lying, _manipulating._ Will is seeing what Hannibal wants him to see. “We’ll get along a lot better if you stopped.”

“I was under the impression that we were getting along quite well.”

Will refuses to be blindsided by a con man.

“We should get back to the hotel,” he mutters. “The weather looks like it’s about to worsen.”

Without further acknowledgement, Will steps into the bathroom and shuts the door behind him.


	7. The Chase

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Long have been the weeks since he’s been given this assignment and now he’s here.

Will Graham’s father had once told his boy that clothes make the man. Then again, Will Graham’s father had said a lot of things, some of them true and others not so true. As an adult, Will has learned that clothes only make up the veneer. Clothes are a shield, sometimes simple and other times complex.

In the game Will is playing, clothing is a weapon.

Tonight calls for a tuxedo tailored to his measurements, coupled with diamond cufflinks that gleam brighter than stars. Tonight, Will Graham will be a man apart from those around him, untouchable and looked upon with awe. Tonight, he will compliment Hannibal Lecter while walking on his arm.

_“Showtime, gentlemen.”_

Across the Atlantic, a group of thirteen people are standing in front of screens Will knows too well. 

He can see it as if he were standing in the room with them. Beverly sits before the main monitor, hands moving deftly and precisely over computer keys. Audio and video feeds have started to stream non-stop. Price and Zeller are running statistics. Jack hovers.

_“The less people involved the better. That means no driver this time, and no leaving the car to a valet.”_

Hannibal drives the Rolls-Royce – black and sleek, exuding as much threat and wealth as he – through Vienna’s defrosting roads. The sky is clear, with no impending snow overhead.

_“There is a total of eight exits from the stadium and only one entrance. You will be searched upon entering, so no firearms or weapons that will easily catch attention.”_

They both have knives strapped to their ankles. Hannibal has a scalpel up his sleeve.

_“We’re linked up to the security cameras. Anything shady, we’ll ring in backup and let you guys know.”_

Will fiddles with his cuffs, thoughts blissfully quiet as the vibration of tires over smooth asphalt help calm him. 

_“Remember, this is recon. Do not engage unless lethal force has been initiated by an outside party. Understood?”_

“Affirmative, Miss Katz,” Hannibal says, pulling into the metro strip.

Will nods his head, knowing they can see him.

_“Good luck, you two.”_

The dash cam switches off, but privacy is just an illusion.

Traffic is slow and Will is unsure if he’s grateful or if he hates it. Long have been the weeks since he’s been given this assignment and now he’s here, two hours away from a boxing match he wouldn’t even have bothered watching through Pay-Per-View.

Hardly rare but still unsettling, Margot Verger’s introduction throws an unknown variable into the plan. If the Vergers had been at the party then the odds of them being here, along with the rest of the prominent guests, are inescapable. Heavy scrutiny of her words and no further evidence has Will grasping at ghosts in a dark room. There is something he’s missing, but he only knows as much as he did at the beginning.

“If successful, you will be able to go back home in two days.”

“I’m going back home regardless if we’re successful or not,” Will says, and he hopes Jack is listening at Langley. “After tonight, the assignment is completed and the file written. You can continue it if you want.”

“There won’t be much gathered in the absence of Tobias Budge.”

“Grill the Vergers, then. They have to know something.”

“Margot came to you, Will. If anyone should interrogate her, it should be you.”

Will rolls his shoulder and lets out a steady breath. “I have a feeling the only way I’ll get anything out of her is by taking her to bed.”

To his credit, Hannibal doesn’t react. “I was under the impression her preference lies elsewhere.”

“Yeah, but her brother seems hell bent on changing that.” He turns to look out the window. “He’s putting too much pressure on her if they’re just a couple of rich nobodys.” Preliminary searches led to no information on the Verger family, and it had worked on setting Jack and the others on edge. They are not writing off the possibility of false identities.

“In need of an heir,” says Hannibal, merging into the left lane.

“Or something a lot more sinister.”

“What are you thinking?”

“InRon Dynamics has a sector specialized in genetics, doesn’t it?” Will ignores the pregnant silence, knowing exactly what he sounds like. “I had joked about zombies but…” He brings up a hand to curl a strand of hair and stops, remembering that he’s slicked it back. “Never mind.”

“If Margot knows that you are not who you say you are, then why reach out for your gene pool?” Hannibal’s question is genuine, not an ounce of skepticism or ridicule tied into it.

“Random, most likely. Convenient. It would be easy to make me disappear if my name isn’t easily recognized.”

Hannibal thinks about it. “Perhaps she finds your physical aspects appealing.”

The corner of Will’s mouth twitches. “Is that supposed to be a flirtation, Dr. Lecter?” Although he gets no answer, the way Hannibal’s eyes crinkle attractively at their edges tells of his enjoyment.

Will denies himself the pleasure of lingering on thoughts of the past week. The days had been surprisingly serene, as mellow as the tea he nursed outside of an antique bookshop while Hannibal roamed the dusty aisles for what Will had thought was a souvenir for Alana. 

_For Abigail,_ he had corrected. _You mentioned she enjoys reading._

“Will.”

The stern intonation of his name brings him out of the memory to realize that his heart is beating out of time, and more obvious, his breathing has become erratic. He gulps around the knot in his throat and writes it off as building anxiety.

“How much longer?”

Hannibal spares him a concerned look. “Soon.”

Not jealousy, and clearly not anger. Not this time. Will doesn’t feel threatened at the prospect of Hannibal and Alana building a home with Abigail. Alana would never allow it, would never be legally allowed to.

Abigail doesn’t need adopting. She still has a mother. She’s of legal age. But it’s the idea of it that warms Will’s weary bones.

He entertains the idea of having a child of his own, if the world were a different place and his life were a different one.

“Don’t go inside, Will.” A hand on his knee startles him. “Stay with me.”

“Where else would I go?” The question is out before he can stop it, or even make sense of what it’s supposed to mean.

Will had tried escaping only to be roped right back in with ease. All he has left is to run while wearing a longer leash, pretending that he’s in control of his life. A blind eye will not buy him freedom, but the fantasy of peace it provides is priceless.

***

A season of Little League and a semester of track in high school are the closest Will has ever gotten to sports. He had been too short for basketball and his father had frowned at the idea of him enlisting in a soccer team, which lead him to practice a whole lot of nothing. What little he knows about boxing he’s learned through word of mouth or enthusiastic news reports he’d never pay attention to.

It doesn’t take a genius to predict who’s going to take the match judging by the beating one of the boxers is taking, but Will reckons that the losing streak is a farse. The man will most likely come back with a vengeance during the final rounds, delivering the final blow that will grant him victory.

From where he sits up front it’s difficult to gauge the crowd’s reaction, who they’re rooting for and who’s the MVP. All he knows is that the match is anything but boring, and he has to keep himself in check whenever a perfectly timed succession of blows riles him up.

Next to him sits Hannibal, attentive enough to be considered proper but not too enthralled. He has his legs crossed, the front row seats allowing him the space to do so, and he rests his hands over his lap. Occasionally, he reaches over to tuck a stray strand of hair behind Will’s ear whenever a sudden excited jerk dislodges it.

The boisterous arena only grows louder, disrupting any and all attempts at conversation. The earpiece is quiet, emitting rather than receiving sound as the match goes on.

Will notices they have company when Hannibal leans away from him, towards a man who is now taking the previously vacant seat to his left. He watches out of the corner of his eye as Hannibal nods before he turns to Will.

_I’ll be back in a moment,_ he mouths, touching his ear in a fashion one would consider absentminded in any other occasion. It isn’t a warning, but a reminder. If anything happens, Hannibal is merely the press of a button away.

Will gives him a lover’s smile, hoping it conveys every ounce of stability and confidence he feels at the moment.

It comes in waves, the toeing of the line between the old Agent Graham and this new spooked critter donning expensive suits and playing at a game he’s long since lost. But he can hold his ground at the moment. He isn’t dependant of a partner in the field, and that fact solidifies the conviction that he can and will do this.

He avidly hopes this isn’t just a reflection of Hannibal’s staggering self-confidence.

Unaware of Will’s dilemma, Hannibal offers a reassuring squeeze to the knee before getting up and disappearing down the walkway with his contact in tow.

Will turns to face the ring just as the round ends.

There is solitude in numbers, a strange sort of safety Will takes into himself and hoards. The wicked promises the illness feeds him are easier to ignore like this, logic battling out and winning by the skin of its teeth. But the tiny voice doesn’t go down easily, whispering half-truths that anonymity only works when someone isn’t a walking target, and that there’s a bullseyes right in the middle of his back.

Dr. Bloom insists it’s paranoia, but Will still argues that it’s self-preservation.

The seat next to him becomes occupied once more when the tenth round begins, but it isn’t Hannibal who takes it.

Will gives the man a brief once over - medium build, short hair, round face - and returns his attention to the match. No perceivable threat at first glance. The second one yields much more. Cheap suit, mismatched and worn. Scuffed shoes, gloved hands. Not someone who should be here.

The man senses he’s being watched and turns to Will with an easygoing grin, shrugs his shoulder, wordlessly sells himself as a father of two with a nice house in the suburbs and a van. Harmless, and Will knows better.

Talking is hopeless in the roar of spectators, so Will gives the man his undivided attention.

Seemingly satisfied, the man nods and gestures Will to follow him out.

Contrary to what he’d been expecting, Will’s heart doesn’t race with dread or anticipation. He walks with purpose, wide and even strides down the elevated walkways and out into the near desolate hallways reminiscent to his days in Shanghai. Brightly lit, narrow, smelling of cigarette and spilt beer.

“I assume you’re looking for Jacob,” Will says, slipping his hands into his pockets and trying not to look threatening. “He came out here just a few minutes ago.”

The man walks on, past exits and the occasional spectator. He doesn’t speak, and Will relies on the humming of the generator to keep his thoughts from running rampant. The crowd can be heard through the halls.

They walk by a broken vending machine and Will tenses, reaches for a gun he doesn’t have on him.

He fiddles with his watch, presses the knob on the side but all he gets is static. Hannibal’s line is dead. Panic can come later. Surrendering to it now will only guarantee him a messy death.

He tries again, this time connecting to Langley on a one-way feed.

The restroom he’s led into smells of piss and cigarettes, stenches that no money or status can erase from the walls. A den of indiscretion, guarded by men in torn jeans and heavy black jackets, equally heavy guns strapped to their sides and blades glinting in the green light that flickers overhead. Inside, he wonders how many politician’s wives have dropped to their knees.

Will is given the opportunity to lean against the corner that divides the stalls and the sinks, kept there by broad backs and silent threats. The only person who looks at him is the man who has escorted him, and he doesn’t look too excited to be here. He doesn’t look sorry for Will, or troubled by what may happen, but there are definitely places he would rather be.

The lighting in the restroom is dim, flickers every couple of seconds. A puddle has formed under the furthest of the rusted sinks, filling the already putrid air with the hint of corrosion. The place is less than ideal for any meeting, giving Will no means of escape if matters get out of hand. There isn’t even a window.

An indeterminable amount of time passes before the doors open again, a dark skinned man who holds himself with an air of superiority walking in and upturning his nose at the smell. He gives a quick look to one of the guards, jerks his head in Will’s direction, and suddenly Will’s face gets intimately acquainted with the grime in the tile cracks.

The guard pats him down, thoroughly, and flips him frontward again, shoving his back onto the wall and stepping away. The others keep their distance, losing interest when they find that Will isn’t armed in the way they expected him to be.

“Mr. Graham,” greets the dark skinned man. His voice is reminiscent of honey, thick and sweet, with an elegant curl to it that reminds him of Hannibal. “I’ve long awaited for this day to come.”

Will pushes off the wall and squares off his shoulders, finally putting a name to the man. “Budge.”

“Honestly, we thought you’d prove difficult to apprehend.” Tobias grins; a straight row of pearly whites. “I’m deeply disappointed.”

“It’s been awhile since I’ve played hard to get,” Will says, dropping the accent and scanning the room around him. No one’s drawn a weapon yet. “Besides, I wasn’t expecting you.”

“Did the Agency not think to keep a closer eye on private airports?”

“The Agency kind of had more important things to worry about.” Will cocks his head to the side and takes a step forward. No one deems it dangerous enough to merit defensive action.

“Truly.” Tobias draws a phone from his coat pocket. “Now, as much as I would adore to stay and have a word with you, I fear I’m running on a fairly tight schedule.”

“No megalomaniacal speeches?”

“Not today, no.” There’s genuine amusement in the way he turns towards Will’s escort, inviting him to join a short laugh. The gesture is uncannily inhuman. “The reason why I always win is because I never dally. The less you know, the better.”

Will breathes in deep, catching the underlying message of what he’s saying. “Rather bland, isn’t it?” he says, slipping his hands into his pants pockets. “Just kill me off for knowing next to nothing? I had hopes I’d at least know what your company is up to.”

“My company functions according to code.” He’s smug, self-assured. “Ethical and legal.”

“Okay, so, if not your company, the people you have working for your company.”

“All you have are half-formed ideas and uncreative conspiracy theories.” Tobias steps closer to Will, looking his face over with an approving nod. “Whatever will you do?”

“Nothing legal about killing a government agent.”

“I’m not going to have you killed, Mr. Graham,” he says, amusement reaching new heights. “You’re too curious a subject.”

“If I had a penny.”

“We’ll market you for more than that.”

Will’s jaw clenches when instinct tries to claw its way out of him. He can’t try to run, much less fight. They won’t hesitate to put him down. “Sorry?”

“InRon Dynamics covers a wide variety of scientific fields, as you already know.” Tobias reaches up to press gloved fingertips to Will’s cheekbone, violating every barrier Will has desperately tried to build over the years. “State of the art technology, cutting edge advancements in artificial intelligence - enough to guide any nation to victory.” A thumb traces the arch of his brow. “But there’s only so far humankind can achieve without necessary sacrifices.”

Will jerks away when nausea rolls in his gut, clenching around his esophagus and burning his lungs. “Human trials.” It isn’t a question, more of a dismayed remark of having been so close to knowing. “Who works the Ethics Committee, again? You must give HR a field day.”

“It’s a good defense mechanism,” Tobias says, wrapping his arms over his chest as he begins to pace the room. “That… thing you do.”

“What thing?”

“Covering your fear with dry humor.” He chuckles. “But not quite as interesting as that _other_ thing you do. Some say it’s almost superhuman.”

Will echoes his chuckle, but his is humorless. “I guarantee you, it’s not.”

“I’ve read your files.”

“The director likes to embellish my work.”

“Oh, I don’t doubt it. Regardless.” Tobias claps his hands once, almost with delight. “Like I said, pressed on time. If you’d be so kind as to follow my men out with as little trouble as possible, it would be greatly appreciated. No one else needs to bleed more than necessary today.”

No one moves towards him, but as Tobias goes to leave, Will speaks up again. “My partner.”

“Like I said. No one _else_ needs to bleed today.” Another bright smile, this one rich with eloquence. “I look forward to working with you.”

Will watches him walk out, hands fisted inside his pockets. With the pad of his middle finger, he feels along the rich fabric for a sign of cold steel, his blade hidden within the folds itself. It’s thin enough to go undetected by an average touch, but sharp enough to cause irreparable damage if used precisely. He finds it, grips it.

The escort introduces himself. “Clark Ingram. If you cooperate, this can be done very easily.”

“Nice to meet you,” Will grits out, steadily staring at the door when two guards come to stand behind him, pushing him out of the restroom without a touch. The click of a gun says they’re not taking any chances.

“Likewise.” Ingram keeps stride with Will, out into the dilapidated hallway where the sea of voices swamps him again. “I have to ask you to drop whatever you have up your sleeve.” At this, Will lifts an eyebrow. “I don’t know what you’re up to, but whatever it is, these boys are faster.”

“How sure are you about that?”

“Pretty sure.”

“Small amount of security for someone with supposed superhuman abilities.”

Ingram snorts, pulls back his jacket to show off the gun he has holstered at the hip. “Unless you can move things with your thoughts, I’m not exactly impressed. However, Budge insists he can get something out of you, and I’m only here to do my job, so we’ll leave it at that.”

Will bites the inside of his lip, distractedly looking about the hallway for any means of escape. “Do you know what it is I can do?” The best thing to do is keep him talking.

“Rumor has it you can read minds.”

How unoriginal, Will thinks. “The Agency seems to think so, too,” he says. “They say it’s why I’ve never failed an assignment. I just think I’m really good at looking at the evidence and thinking about obvious but easily ignored scenarios.”

“Like a Sherlock Holmes wannabe.”

That is also unoriginal. “No, but if it helps you see what I do more clearly, then yes.”

“Still not impressed.” 

A couple walks by them, too involved with each other to make much out of the four men in a potentially hostile situation.

“Your boss clearly is.”

“Budge is…” Ingram stops talking for a moment, looking around. “He’s eccentric.”

“I have a feeling him and my partner would have gotten along nicely.” Or killed each other. He tries not to think about Hannibal’s body ditched in a hole somewhere outside of Vienna.

“Budge’s eccentricities border on madness, if you ask me.”

No surprise considering the nature of Budge’s murders.

A stray thought flourishes in Will’s mind, a remark Hannibal had made months ago just several feet away from Will’s porch. He had mentioned having looked at Budge’s portfolio one too many times, and yet again, Will is struck with the feeling that the words are relevant to _something_.

“How long have the trials been going on for?” he tries, in hopes he can feed Katz and the others information. Ingram isn’t stupid, refusing to answer the question. “Did Budge orchestrate them himself? He looks the type for art.”

“I don’t think that concerns you, Graham.”

“If he’s going to poke at my brain, I might as well know.”

“The most clever of monsters won’t even leave a trace of their manipulations,” Ingram says. “There’s no need to worry about that. You won’t even realize what he’s doing until it’s too late.”

“Too late.”

“Too late to get out alive.” A pause. “Too late to even want to get out alive.”

“Is this what happened to you?” 

They finally stop when they reach the main lobby, slowly filling up with people as the match comes to an end. The place is huge, filled with echoes that bounce against his chest and the marble pillars. Will keeps outwardly calm and unbothered, but inside his heart lodges at the base of his throat.

Amidst the swarming crowd he spots a man, dressed in a fine tuxedo and slicked hair. He’s gone within the blink of an eye.

“I’m getting paid,” Ingram says, “for a very specific job.”

The following progression of events have Will working through them with a speed born out of recklessness and survival instinct, all hesitation and irrational fears cast out in the wake of adrenaline.

The fire alarm is his invitation, klaxons so loud they startle him into action. The lobby goes dark, red spotlights swiveling over people and guiding them towards the exits.

Knife out, Will ducks, plunges it into the femoral artery of the closest bodyguard. 

He swings and swipes the legs out from underneath the second one, steps on his wrist until he lets go of the gun. Will takes it, and doesn’t stay to catalogue the damage when gunshots blow in his ears.

Ingram shoots at him but misses, hesitant to wound innocent bystanders when Will plunges himself into the stampeding crowd. He keeps pace until they push him out of the building.

The frigid air shocks him, the absence of his coat suddenly stark and intrusive in his plans. He doesn’t linger on it, trusting the bodies around him to keep him hot enough until he’s able to reach the car. It doesn’t work. More gunshots has the crowd dispersing.

Path now clear, Will runs. He pushes well past his limits, beyond the capabilities of his heart and lungs. Lightheadedness tries its hardest to make him stumble but he doesn’t. Will runs even when reality slips from him, when by his side runs a stag bigger than any he’s ever seen, bloodied and bruised but serving as a barrier.

He grips the blade and doesn’t flinch when it bites into his palm, flooding his hand with blood and the smallest hint of pain. It’s enough to keep him grounded, to remind him to evade and duck behind every surface he can see, until he’s unlocking the car from the distance and slipping inside.

There is no time to thaw out so he slams the power button so hard it doesn’t pop out again, but the engine turns over, the sleek beeps and blue lights of the dashboard coming alive. He throws it into drive and the back window shatters, the loud clangs of bullets raining against metal seizing up his muscles with panic.

_Not now. Not here._

Will guns in.

Outside the world moves in strokes of color, lights becoming lines against the black backdrop of a modern city. If there are people, he doesn’t see them, doesn’t think about the noises other than that of his erratic breathing and hammering heartbeat. Vaguely, horns drift in through the haze, ripping him away from the dreamlike state.

He briefly thinks about the lack of heavy traffic, making it easy for him to thread through lanes at speeds well over the limit. He knows he’s being chased well before he sees the twin headlights zig-zagging behind him.

The gas pedal hits the floor, the tiniest shift of the wheel making the car jerk and swerve. Will takes a left, away from the stadium and away from the hotel, away from the nightmare that waits for him if he looks back.

Another car zooms out of an adjacent street intent on slamming into the driver’s side, but Will manages to avoid it, getting the rear bumper hit instead. It isn’t enough to stop him, but it spins the Rolls-Royce once before he can get it under control again.

Will grips the steering wheel hard enough to remind him of his open palm but it doesn’t deter him. There’s no pain to be felt.

A quick look at the rearview mirror tells of three other vehicles gaining on him, the nearest one ramming into his bumper and sending him lurching forward. Another car is coming at him from the front.

He takes a sharp left and onto the cobblestoned street of a closed market, narrow enough to rip off the side mirrors. It’s a struggle to keep the car straight, to navigate for a way out.

The buildings are closing in, warping like trees that reach out with dry and dead branches, snagging on his clothes and keeping him trapped. The night gets darker, the stars die out, and the ending goes silent.

The pain in Will’s chest is sharp enough to start a new wave of panic. This is a pain he can’t ignore. Fear isn’t the cause of this, although it might be the cause for his shaking hands.

His eyesight blurs and he curses, unable to tell if what he sees and feels is real. He wonders if he’s even gotten up today, if this is just some elaborate nightmare designed to get him to reconsider being here.

It must be a nightmare, because at the end of the road, at the mouth of a yawning darkness stands the same stag from before. Awesome and terrifying, it stands there, mocking him, luring him, daring him to go faster. He does.

Will grits his teeth, chase forgotten.

He wants it gone from his memory and he’ll kill it if he has to, but it has to go. No matter what it takes, it has to leave.

It does leave, even before his car can reach the end of the tunnel. Its hooves click away at a leisurely pace, leaving no trail or proof of its existence once it’s out of sight. What takes its place is a motorcycle, one that parks just off to the side.

Will slams the brakes but it isn’t enough.

A twist and a turn and then there’s nothing, the feeling of free falling before a crash that knocks the air out of him. 

A lurch, a burn, and a freezing cold wall.


	8. The Confession

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “You’re him, aren’t you?” Will asks into the quiet room.

_Will uses his father’s sunglasses to protect his eyes from the sharp rays of the setting sun over the horizon. He’s misplaced his own, left them on the passenger’s seat of Elisa Stamos’ car, maybe. It doesn’t matter. His father’s down in Miami working a rush job. He won’t know that Will’s using his favorite shades without permission._

_Waves lap at his feet when he sits on the shore, curling his toes into the cooling sand. Broken shells and bottle caps poke his skin but he pays them no mind, too preoccupied counting the seagulls that call and glide overhead._

_The smell of something fried reaches his nose then, reminding him that he’s famished. He can’t remember when he ate last, or if he’s eaten at all during these last couple of days. It didn’t seem important at the time, still doesn’t, but Will figures he should at least drink some water._

_Eating while his father’s absent isn’t a very good idea, he decides. Then again, eating when he is is also not a good idea. He can never tell when he should do it. It isn’t like the man will reprimand him for saying that he’s hungry, but there is a lingering fear of what his father will think and not say._

_The feeling is similar to that of getting home with a broken lip and swollen eye, with bruised knuckles from giving into emotions that fed a different kind of appetite. The disappointment on his father’s face when Will gets home before the school day is over, offering no explanation as to why._

_The sand is cool and the sea warm. Will wants to know if he’s grown taller by walking into it and seeing how far in he can go without drowning, but he’s no longer thirteen and no longer in Louisiana._

_The stream is calm and shallow, caressing his ankles as he walks along it without his fishing gear._

_There’s a knife embedded on his shoulder and the wound bleeds, soaking his threadbare shirt and turning the water red. Will feels no pain, only mild discomfort. This will become an inconvenience, so he wraps a fist around the hilt and pulls it out._

_What he holds is the velvet tine of a creature that insists on pushing him forward, on nudging him deeper into the stream where the waters turn turbulent. He slips on rocks and almost loses his footing but throne-like antlers keep him steady, guiding him like skeletal hands, keeping him afloat when the stream turns violent._

_Will experiences fear but it isn’t the kind that paralyzes. His heartbeat doesn’t pick up. Neither does he get excited. This is as inevitable as death, as natural and involuntary as breathing, so he allows himself to be guided deeper._

_The world changes before he can drown, leaving him in an endless yellowing field._

_Although he can’t see it, he’s certain there’s a scarecrow somewhere near. He can imagine it in lucid detail: its straw hair and eccentric three piece suit meant to fend off the birds but lure in the humans with its odd charm._

_Will trudges through corn stalks and doesn’t stop when the scarecrow he can’t see keeps pace with him a few rows to his left. He doesn’t realize when the scarecrow passes him, neither does Will realize when he starts to follow instead._

_He’s led into a clearing where Will must step onto a stage to admire the presentation. A spectacle of color and feeling, of air so crisp and music so clear he wishes he could weep. But he won’t. Will won’t weep, even when the scarecrow tells him it’s okay to, because his father is watching just over his shoulder._

_He must be strong. If he can’t brave his way through the rest of his life, Will might as well prove his strength at this very moment. He will enjoy the performance and keep the awe it inspires locked within the confines of his heart that beats in sync to the girl’s own._

_There is beauty in the way she’s splayed open over the stag head, body inviting the sun’s rays to kiss her pale skin. The antlers’ black velvet is a shocking contrast, completing the vibrant red of her blood that runs in thick rivulets down her sides. Her open chest, bones a stark white, reveals her inner machine, the heart that keeps pumping and the lungs that keep breathing long after she’s died._

_Will’s enjoyment is his own and he keeps it safe. No one has to know of this gift he’s been given, of the opportunity to see what’s behind the curtain. There are no impenetrable walls here, just oceans to quiet the tempest._

_Little house on the ocean getting burned. Sea beasts crushing the ship’s hull._

_There is comfort in the darkness because the darkness is. Light is merely an intruder, the cause of headaches and blindness. A beacon, but never a halo._

_A devil child who feared his father for he knew what his father could do. Will knows because they’re exactly alike. While his father pushed away at his darkness, buried it underneath whiskey and boat motors, Will stares it in the eye and uses it to his advantage. He wields it, sells it, but he can only control it so far. He fears that one day he’ll stare into that darkness only to find it staring right back._

_Gone is the scarecrow and in its place it leaves a man. One with eyes glossy with death and chest swathed in gore. Fingernails gone and mouth twisted, patches of hair missing from his head._

_Garrett Jacob Hobbs stands beside Will, looking down at the art piece with nothing written across his ghoulish features. He looks on in contemplative silence, never at peace, fulfilling no role other than the one of keeping Will company._

_The corn stalks sway around him. The smell of a fine meal stirs his appetite._

_This is an elevation, and a becoming._

_This is his design._

***

Will wakes soaked in sweat and with a foul taste in his mouth, throat scratchy and parched. Glaring light forces his eyes closed again. He feels cold. Uncomfortable. Opening his eyes again, he finds that he’s in a hospital bed wearing nothing but a paper gown and an IV drip hooked up to his arm.

The room is simple enough. Although smelling of antiseptic, it doesn’t resemble the average hospital with bleached walls and old equipment. A hotel room would be a more adequate name for it. Monitors and machines blend in with the furniture, humming along with the generator like an unintentional lullaby.

Sheer curtains are drawn but it’s easy to see that it’s daytime, and Will follows the sliver of light that had fallen across his face to see Hannibal by his bedside. He’s slumped in a chair, chin to chest as it rises and falls in the gentle lull of sleep.

Will watches him with a myriad of feelings dancing in his stomach, not all of them positive.

There isn’t a scratch on him. No tell-tale sign of a struggle, much less anything fatal. Even dressed down to a pair of dress pants and a cardigan he looks immaculate, for the exception of the stubble he keeps in check. This isn’t the sight of a man who had been incapacitated.

Shifting on the bed, Will groans when he’s made aware of every sore inch of his body. His toes are burning cold and his elbow screams bloody murder when he tries moving it. In the end, he opts to lying perfectly still until sleep takes him again.

Instead, he thinks of how he ended up here.

Memories manifest themselves in a series of flashes of light and a distinguished sense of fear. He remembers gunshots and screaming, klaxons and screeching tires. He recalls a moment of falling that is followed by no sight or sound, just a cold that rushes up his legs and chest and head.

Will sighs and turns his head away from Hannibal.

He had been in the crowd, setting off the alarm that began the frenzy. Granted, had he not done that Will would have been in a morgue rather than a hospital. Then again, he’s convinced that Hannibal had been the one standing between his car and the turn he had to take. There is no reason for him to be thinking this, at least not that he can explain, but Will would stake everything he has that it was Hannibal on that motorcycle.

Whatever game he’s been brought into, Will wants it to stop. He knows the man isn’t to be trusted, and now he understands that Hannibal has done exactly what Will was afraid of. A veil has been pulled over his eyes and even with blatant distrust, Will allowed complacency between them. Camaraderie he’s come to accept.

“You’re him, aren’t you?” Will asks into the quiet room. Hannibal doesn’t stir.

The once implausible idea suddenly fits with uncanny perfection. On their first meeting, Hannibal had confessed to swapping notes with Tobias Budge, stating that he strives to perfect his science and not his skill. The photos inside that portfolio didn’t all belong to Budge’s alleged crime scenes, however. Some of them had been victims of the Chesapeake Ripper.

Hannibal has mastered the ability to hide in plain sight, going as far as to simply changing his first name and managing to slip through the system undetected. It isn’t like Lecter is that much of a common surname. One would think someone would have caught on sooner later. Maybe someone did, but didn’t get to live long enough to tell the tale. He vaguely recalls reading about the missing FBI agent who had been close to catching him.

Will’s eyelids droop, but he fights sleep a little longer.

Curiosity can’t be the only motive Hannibal has behind this. There’s something more, and he can tell from the display the Ripper presented a matter of days ago. Hannibal is calling out to someone; to Budge, most likely. The answer to that riddle is simple, but Will doesn’t want to accept it.

A blink causes the room around him to change, and he frowns. It’s darker now, the bedside lamps flood his vision with a yellow glow and he follows its radius, revealing that he’s no longer wearing a paper gown. He now has a shirt he doesn’t recognize, and wears cotton pajama bottoms that are soft from wear.

“How long have I been out?” His voice cracks and fails, but the message is clear.

Hannibal looks up from the book he has open over his knee. “Three days.” He marks the page he’s on and closes it, placing the book on the bedside table and giving Will his undivided attention. “How are you feeling?”

“What happened?”

“You were in an accident.”

Will shuts his eyes, his memories muddy and incoherent in the drug induced haze. He waits for his mind to settle and draws out the thoughts he’d been entertaining before sleep had claimed him, clutching them and refusing to let go.

He looks at Hannibal, meeting his eyes without hesitation. It’s easier now. “You intercepted me,” Will says, the severity he wishes to convey lost in the croak of his voice.

Hannibal serves him a cup of water, but Will can see precisely the moment when his face shuts off. The blank expression is only there for a brief moment until a look of resignation takes its place.

“Yes.” He stands to help Will sit up against the headboard before giving him the cup. “It was necessary.”

“You almost got me killed.”

Hannibal nods his head, retaking his chair and staring at Will as if he can see right through him. “Almost.” His blink is slow, mechanical. “Had it been up to them, there would be no almost.”

“You’re working for them.”

“I work only for myself.”

“Then you have common interests.”

The mask is once again in place, but it does little to deter Will. Now he knows there is one, that he can slip his fingers along its edges and pull it off. He suspects there to be an entire suit underneath it, but he’ll take it one layer at a time.

“The game changed,” Hannibal says. “Opportunities were presented to me.”

Will drinks his water with difficulty. His toes still hurt. “Did I crash into something?”

“You drove off a bridge. By the time the paramedics arrived you were unconscious, had swallowed a great deal of water, and were bordering on hypothermia.”

He puts the cup down before he can spill it over his lap. “What opportunities?”

Hannibal considers the question, debating whether or not he should tell Will the truth. Will assumes that the expressions are only there for his benefit. “The Agency tends to recruit only the best of the best, those who excel in their craft and can cater to the government’s needs.”

“Same can be said about any employer.”

“Are you familiar with the MK Ultra project?” Will deadpans, but Hannibal continues. “Conspiracies are often perpetuated to be used as smoke screens for much more sinister situations.”

“The CIA isn’t creating a super soldier, Agent Mulder,” Will says. The remark lacks humor mostly because of Budge’s words in the restroom. If they’re developing technologies beyond human comprehension, it isn’t that farfetched of an idea. “There is nothing superhuman about my imagination,” he defends, becoming agitated when the rest slides into place. “You sold me out to them. How much did they fucking offer you, huh?”

“Not enough.”

“That’s not very comforting.”

“I won’t lie to you.”

“Still not very comforting considering that’s all you’ve been doing since the start.”

Hannibal purses his lips in a way Will has only seen him do while in his company. “The profiles stolen from the database were not used to build a hit list. Instead, InRon was searching for information on agents who would be compatible with their projects. Yourself included. I only learned this upon my meeting with Tier.”

“Right. This is when you thought it would be a swell idea to hand me over.”

“I was guaranteed your safety, but after the display at the match, I found they had no such intention in mind. It was necessary to break the agreement.”

“That’s very nice of you.” It’s hard not to be sarcastic.

“Don’t misunderstand, Will. My reasons aren’t as altruistic as you would like them to be.”

Will keeps his eyes on him, weary. “Why do you want me alive?” The question runs deeper than he intended it to, and he knows that Hannibal is keenly aware of what he’s asking. In truth, it’s less of a question and more of an accusation that goes beyond Will’s life.

Hannibal doesn’t immediately answer. Instead, he says, “Abigail and I spoke while you were under.”

Will sags against the pillows, shutting his eyes. “How is she?”

“Upset you hadn’t given her a call.” The prospect amuses Hannibal. “While she had said to contact her in case of an emergency, she would have appreciated if you had called for a simple hello.”

Abigail would have stated this with a composed smile over the phone. The reprimand more in jest than actual upset. The thought of it thaws him, helping him shed away the ghostly cover of frost that lingers under his skin. “What did you tell her?”

“That you are a very busy man but you’ve never stopped thinking about her.”

“Alana would disapprove of your word choice.”

“Affectionate attachment should not be interrupted when both parties may be able to gain a positive outlook. Personally, I see nothing wrong with allowing the two of you to flourish.”

“Doctors say she might become codependent of me.”

Hannibal hums in agreement. “Or the other way around.”

Biting his bottom lip, he focuses on his breathing. “I may not have anyone else, _doctor_ , but-” Will stops, aware that there’s no good way to end the sentence. He hates that he’s even allowed himself to start voicing it. Usually, he’s far more tactical than this.

“We don’t choose to become codependent, Will.”

“Do you honestly think I’ll let myself become that way?” he asks instead, unable to keep the defensiveness out of his voice. Will knows the extent of his mind quite well, despite whatever nightmares manifest whether asleep or awake.

He opens his eyes and finds Hannibal looking at him with the same blank expression from before, only slightly more assessing. “The mind is a complicated machine, one we can never hope to fully understand. But it is also an organ like any other. You cannot will a liver to not rot after years of alcohol consumption, nor lungs not to blacken when you are a chain smoker.”

Will focuses on his heartbeat. “What are you trying to say?”

“You can keep up with me quite well. Please don’t pretend you’re unable to.”

“I’m not sick,” Will says. “This thing doesn’t mean I can… control, or whatever, I’m,” deep breath, “All I have is a very active imagination and the ability to focus.”

“Tobias Budge is convinced that your ability is a result of something physiological, that you can do a lot more than you claim you can.”

“Well he’s shit out of luck.” At Hannibal’s mild smile, Will tries a variation of a previous question. “What made you change your mind? About handing me over, I mean.”

Hannibal turns his attention to the book he had been reading, and then to the joined hands he has over his lap. More thinking, and Will has the impression that Hannibal is being more careful than he usually is. It’s both unsettling and calming, to know that Will isn’t the only one being thrown into a loop.

“I underestimated your mind,” he says. “It would be far more interesting and satisfying if I’m the one who sinks his fingers in your head to see what makes you work the way you do.” Hannibal meets Will’s gaze without shame or embarrassment. “You are remarkable and intriguing, and I decided to keep you for myself.”

Breath robbed from him, Will hides his shaking hands under the covers. Heat stirs in him, alerting him of every wrong and twisted truth but it doesn’t stop the arousal that touches his gut. His words aren’t even meant to be sexual.

“I keep forgetting you’re not an actual psychiatrist and that your moral compass is fucked to hell.”

“I have morals,” Hannibal says, weirdly affronted by the accusation.

“Breaking off a deal worth millions just on a whim.”

“You overestimate your monetary worth, dear Will.”

Will wonders what he’d do if he flipped him off. “I’m perfectly aware of my worth, Hannibal. I’m also aware that I don’t deserve it.”

Crossing his legs, Hannibal shifts on the seat. “A peculiar concoction of high self-esteem and deep self-loathing.”

“You’re not a psychiatrist.”

“My credentials may have been false, but that does not equate to a lack of knowledge of the field.” He idly waves a hand. “Years of experience and no one has yet to complain of my practice.”

Will gives him that much. “Self-taught? Even how to perform a heart transplant?”

“The internet has its uses.”

“You get bored so you give yourself a challenge,” Will says. “Pat yourself on the back when you pass with flying colors and nobody suspects a thing. Must feel powerful.”

“Would you like to psychoanalyze me?”

“I’m afraid of what I’ll see in your head.”

“Are you, truly?” Hannibal sounds like he knows Will is spewing bullshit. “Do you assimilate what you see in your targets? Store away vital information until you need it?”

“Like a parasite.”

“Like an opportunist.”

Unsure of what to do with himself, Will brings the sheets higher up his body and wraps them around his shoulders. The room feels colder, the beeping of the monitor no longer a soothing song.

“Tell me about your childhood,” Hannibal says.

“That’s lazy.”

“Simple subject and we’ll proceed to work our way up.”

“Nothing simple about my childhood.” He stops. “Or, it was. It was just different.”

“Was your empathy ever a problem?”

Will’s candidness can later be written off as a consequence of the pain killers if he needs to. Not a lie considering his body feels a considerable less amount of pain than it did when he first woke up.

He makes a noise in affirmation and decides to stare down at his covered feet. “At first I thought it was something everyone experienced. When I was kid, my classmates thought it made me special. My teachers shook their heads, saying that I was just crying for attention.”

“Middle school was the worst,” he says, recalling his dream. “Boys would try to assert their alpha male status and it was intoxicating. I wasn’t as big or as tough as them, but it felt like I was. I thought I was. Most fights were one-sided and the first couple of times I ended up dumped in a garbage can.” Will smiles humorlessly. “Then I started fighting back a lot harder.”

“Was your father aware?”

Will lets the back of his head thump against the headboard to stare at the ceiling. “He thought I was acting out, venting my frustration whichever way I could. He didn’t do anything to stop me.” 

“How does that make you feel?”

He shrugs a shoulder. “Back then, angry. Now I’m just grateful.” Will focuses on his breathing, on keeping it steady. “Had he confronted me, things wouldn’t have gone well. Didn’t stop him from talking shit with the guys at the bar whenever he got drunk.”

Having grown desensitized over the years, Will no longer finds the memories of being called a deadbeat painful. His father never expected him to get far in life. Will’s not sure he has.

“You sheltered yourself in violence,” Hannibal says, adequately attentive.

“Not like it was easy.”

“Your ability pushed at your own moral compass. You flirted with the limits.”

“The limits were blurred.”

“Are they, still?”

“Sometimes.” The Shanghai assignment comes in bits and flashes, reminding him of how close he’d come. “Everyone’s thought about killing someone one way or another.”

“You have taken a life.”

“I’ve taken plenty. It’s a job requirement.”

Hannibal sits like a statue, almost alien in his stillness. “Motives exist on a spectrum where death awaits on both its ends. The outcome is inevitable and the same.”

Will narrows his eyes but his indignation is a moot point. Hannibal is right. Murder is murder, regardless of the label tacked onto its head. Field operatives don’t have the luxury of morals where pulling the trigger is concerned, but Will likes to think himself above that. What he does, in the long run, saves lives. He’s the lesser of two evils.

“There’s a difference,” he says, “between doing a job and killing for sport.”

“That logic suggests that hit-men and assassins are free of blame because they’ve been hired to carry out the action.”

“So you’re self-employed in every aspect.”

“I choose to be as honest as humanly possibly,” Hannibal says. At Will’s incredulous snort, he explains. “There is a poignant quality to Milton’s depiction of Lucifer, in which he tells no lie throughout the narration. His words, though carefully chosen and cleverly manipulated, conveyed nothing but sincerity. Man was at fault of his own ruin.”

“The Devil wants no sympathy.”

“No.” Hannibal looks across the room, at no point in specific. “He does not.”

“What does he want?” The question hangs heavily in the air, cast between an invitation and a taunt.

With only a hunch and half concrete ideas, Will has no grounds to take Hannibal in, much less present him to the Agency under the title of a serial killer. Given the Agency’s track record, they would slap the back of his hand and ask him not to do it again before sending him on his way so long he’s doing his job. 

At the moment, he isn’t a problem. But it won’t be long until Hannibal turns and he will be powerless to stop him.

Intrigued, Will wonders what it is that makes Hannibal the way he is. Psychology isn’t his forte but he’s good at reading people, at prying into their minds and seeing everything exposed like raw nerves. Hannibal is different in the sense that Will can’t see beyond the wall of his eyes, and his face holds nothing but carefully crafted deceit.

It’s refreshing, and the thought of it leaves a sour taste on his tongue.

“Drink your water, Will,” he says, words decorated with warmth.

Unwilling to argue and having exhausted the last bit of his energy, Will nods and does as he’s told. The mission can wait, as can the turmoil in his head, and the haunting feeling his nightmares left behind.

“Thank you for staying,” Will says, awkward and stunted. He’s never good at this, at showing his gratitude or expressing his feeling through words. Somehow, he feels like this is important.

Hannibal rises from the chair and nods his head, extends his hand to carefully tuck errant curls of hair behind Will’s ear. “Rest. I owe Langley a call to inform them you’re awake.”

The hand lingers on his cheek and Will leans into it, talk of morals forgotten in favor of a moment of peace. He wonders if psychopaths are equipped to feel things such as affection and thinks of Alana, thinks of himself and how Hannibal sees him.

That can wait.


	9. The Consumption

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Save a life, lose a life. Save ten lives, lose ten. The chaos of the universe will continue with or without them. The Chesapeake Ripper sees beauty in this entropy, and Agent Will Graham sees nothing but darkness. The contrast is poignant, strangely lovely in the way that painters depict gruesome realities.

Returning to the hotel posed a significant amount of danger but not an urgent one. Had anyone been looking for Will they would have tried the hospital immediately after getting checked in, which plants the question of what happened to the men following him that night. The answer should be obvious, but as of yet, Will is struggling to come to terms with the unspoken revelations of the man currently making dinner.

_“A unit was dispatched shortly after your com went down,”_ Beverly says on her side of the computer screen. The office behind her is empty. _“We lost contact with them twenty four hours later.”_

“InRon must have a base of operations here,” Will says, nursing a glass of wine in his uninjured hand. He’s slumped on the couch, facing the glass windows that reveal a picturesque Vienna in its late evening light. “Or something along those lines.”

_“Any thoughts, Hannibal? Anything you might want to add?”_

Will can see Hannibal reflected on the windows, leaning over his shoulder to get a better look at the laptop on top of the table. He stops himself from recoiling away of the proximity. “I’m afraid I’ve already divulged all the information gathered. As odd as their motive might be, it does hold a sense of credulity.”

_“Jack wants to know if they’re going to try and come after Will again.”_ Her frown is deep, accenting the sleepless nights shown over her face. _“Backup keeps getting wiped out before we can even get near. Next would be getting you two out of Austria.”_

“In all likeliness, there will be a second attempt.”

_“So we abort and get you out.”_

Will shakes his head. “Budge being here means we’re getting close to whatever it is they’re hiding. Backing out now would give them the opportunity to bury anything incriminating.”

_“Like any human test subjects or weak links that might talk.”_ Beverly pinches the bridge of her nose before scratching the back of her neck. _“Extend your time?”_ The question is hesitant.

Requesting an extension feels like giving up the last of his control. His authority will mean nothing once he forsakes his two week limit, and the Agency will find a way to exploit that. Walking out now, however, would haunt him. Not duty, but the need to know.

“Give us until Friday,” he says, moving to place his glass beside the computer. “I’ll manage something before then.”

Looking skeptical, Beverly nods her head and lets her fingers move over her keyboard. _“If you’re still thinking about the Ripper and Budge working together, well, you might be on to something. Cross-referenced just about every case I could find with a similar MO in Western Europe but nothing ties to him. It looks like Vienna was an isolated incident which means, if it really is him, he’s definitely trying to get someone’s attention, be it Budge’s or ours.”_

Will brings his knees to his chest, regretting it when his back protests the movement. Although Hannibal does no move to give him away, he cants his head to the side with interest. “That is strange,” he says, giving Will an intrigued look.

The conversation ends shortly after, with Beverly retiring for the day and Hannibal heading back into the kitchen.

The atmosphere in the suite is heavy enough to choke. Silence is louder than the screaming that hasn’t ended since the gunshots went off in the stadium parking lot, snuffing out panic and leaving a heavy discomfort in its wake. Acceptance swings above his head in the form of a pendulum, counting down the seconds until a scalpel is pressed to his jugular and his body is mounted like an art piece.

Delicious smells waft from the kitchen and anger spikes because Will _isn’t_ angry, he _isn’t_ disgusted despite knowing the truth with utmost certainty. He knows Hannibal will serve their meal and he will sit at the table, thanking him for a magnificent feast that shouldn’t be partaken in.

Will marvels at what gave Hannibal away. For once, he hadn’t been keenly acute of his thought process while arriving at the conclusion. Once the mere suggestion of the idea had formed, Will knew. Any other explanation, any other name placed on the Chesapeake Ripper’s plaque would feel cosmically wrong.

Everything else feels inconsequential.

“Is it safe to assume that you won’t be letting me out of your sight anytime soon?”

“Not in your condition,” Hannibal says, his words light and warm over the sizzle of a pan. “You need to recuperate.”

“Now would be a good time to kill me, if that’s the case.”

Will watches his reflection poised over the stove, adding something or another to one of the pots. He moves with the elegance he does everything else with, sure of his steps and almost whimsical with pleasure.

The meat is served, quartered, and garnished over a small porcelain plate. He sets it aside to cool and cleans up, washes his hands and dries them once he’s done. Next, he refills his glass of wine but otherwise leaves it untouched as he removes his apron and sets it over the counter.

Hannibal walks over to the door and checks the lock, slides the chain into place and Will’s pulse quickens.

He turns and it’s a very long moment before heading back into the kitchen to pick up the plate, and making his way to the lounge.

Will’s eyes fall on his own glass, debates whether it would be enough of a good weapon to bring a man of Hannibal’s size down, but decides against it. Instead, he sits perfectly still when Hannibal comes to stand between his knees, plate in hand and just as immovable as he.

“Do I need to?” he asks, the words flat.

Bringing him in would be the appropriate thing to do, but to what end? Will debates the reasons why he would do such a thing and while it may prove obvious, the taste is unpleasant on the back of his tongue. 

Righteousness abandoned him long ago. The hypocrisy of trying to arrest Hannibal would weigh on the back of his mind as a reminder that he’s condemned a man for doing the same thing he does. At the root of their lives it isn’t the same, but it’s similar enough to matter.

Save a life, lose a life. Save ten lives, lose ten. The chaos of the universe will continue with or without them. The Chesapeake Ripper sees beauty in this entropy, and Agent Will Graham sees nothing but darkness. The contrast is poignant, strangely lovely in the way that painters depict gruesome realities.

Cutting down to it, stripping away the unnecessary layers of moral standards, Will is left with a very simple choice. He covets, that much he knows. Now, he decides whether he keeps, or destroys.

“You once said that you were a selfish man,” Will says, looking up at Hannibal and meeting the deep brown of his eyes. “So am I.”

Hannibal is silent, betraying nothing as he stands there, dressed down to pants and rolled up sleeves. His lips are pressed into a thin line and Will can sense the coiled energy in his muscles. Hannibal is a predator unsure of what to make of him.

Rather than talk, he takes a piece of meat from the plate that is still undoubtedly hot, and brings it to Will’s mouth. The cube rests over his bottom lip, fat falling onto his tongue and causing him to salivate at its obscenely good taste.

One more moment, one more line to be crossed and Will teeters over it, silently begging for Hannibal to catch him were he to stumble.

He parts his lips, and Hannibal nudges it into his mouth.

The burst of flavor stands Will’s hairs on end, making him shiver as he chews with mild delight. He thinks it’s wrong, but the voice inside his head shushes him by telling him that it will be alright. It’s alright.

Life returns to Hannibal’s face as he takes a bite from another cube, before offering the rest of it to Will. He takes it with gusto, intentionally brushing his lips against Hannibal’s fingertips.

Here, there is no need to hide. The fact that Hannibal might kill him is almost a relief, eliminating the unknown factor that lingers over his head on a daily basis. He knows that Hannibal will allow no one to take his life, because it now belongs to him.

“I thought you would require more extreme methods of silencing,” he says, dragging a thumb along Will’s bottom lip before pushing it into his mouth.

Will twirls his tongue around it, before turning his head away and letting it slip out. “Guess you don’t know me as well as you’d like to.”

Hannibal bends to press a kiss to Will’s neck, one he’s certain won’t be rejected. Whatever begins to unravel here, Will has no intention of stopping it.

Lips trail downward, along his chest and stomach, over the worn cotton of his sweater. Will watches with twitching fingers as Hannibal moves to kneel between his knees, his hands pushing the fabric up to reveal smooth skin. He kisses just under his navel, stubble tickling.

Will lights up under the attention, his hunger lying naked for Hannibal to bear witness to. He remains still, letting the man do as he pleases. Mostly, he touches, and it’s easy to pick up on the endless train of thought that keeps him moving over Will’s lap.

“What do you want from me, Will?” 

No metaphors. “Right now, I really want you to go down on me.”

Hannibal’s smile is one of intrigue. “You would allow me to have you in my mouth.”

There must be something broken in him because he nods. He nods so enthusiastically, he’s afraid his head will detach itself from his shoulders. “Please.”

The elastic band of the pajama pants is pulled down without fanfare, exposing Will’s hard cock. Hannibal presses a simple kiss to the tip before pulling away with a lick to his lips. “Eat,” he demands, briefly directing his eyes to the plate by Will’s side.

Unsteady hands pick at the morsels, but a wet mouth around him stills all movement. An involuntary sound stumbles out of Will, quivering in his chest as Hannibal swallows him down with ease born from experience.

Lips tight and tongue wide, Hannibal sucks, hollowing his cheeks until Will falls free from his mouth, bobbing up and resting over his thigh. Hannibal mouths at his cock, messy and enraptured, and it’s both unlike him and entirely him. Driven, precise, and delectable.

He pauses, forcing Will to realize he’s become distracted. Swallowing around the knot in his throat, he bites into his meal, and only then does Hannibal take him back into his mouth.

It’s a game of mutual consumption, in which Will gives himself for Hannibal to dine on while he eats what are undeniably the remains of his victim. Hannibal is conditioning him, driving him to relate a would be traumatizing event to something pleasurable. Will wants to say that he needn’t go that far, but a particularly hard suck has his head tipping back, scattering his thoughts to the wind.

Hannibal’s bangs fall over his forehead, making him look younger while bobbing his head over Will’s lap. The sounds he makes are obscene, making Will harder and urging him to buck up, but a hand on his hip holds him down. Teeth ghost over the shaft in warning.

Will moans around the last bit of meat he puts in his mouth, chews, and swallows. Still warm, still delicious, and Hannibal’s tongue is maddening as it continues to stroke his strained flesh.

There’s a pause, a hand substituting sinful lips as Hannibal admires the empty plate with a satisfied nod. He gestures Will to bend forward for a kiss that’s bruising and demanding, sultry in a way only Hannibal can pull off with his debauched mouth and pristine posture. Will’s bottom lip is caught between his teeth as he pulls away, but Hannibal doesn’t bite hard enough to break skin. The gesture is a promise rather than a warning.

He returns to press a kiss to the tip of Will’s cock, suckling along the side. “What do you want, Will?” he asks again, rubbing his cheek against the spit-slick length. The sight is erotic enough to make his cock jerk.

Will’s mouth works but no words come out, overwhelmed by sensation and a lust so blinding he wants to push Hannibal onto the floor and fuck him senseless. He wants to claim physically, in the same way Hannibal has claimed him mentally.

Carding his fingers through soft hair, Will grips tight and pulls back to expose Hannibal’s neck. Unbristled by the manhandling, Hannibal goes with it, regarding Will with a cool stare. Will wants to break his composure whichever way possible, and for a chilling moment he is stricken with the thought that the violence with which he thirsts may not be his own.

“I want to fuck your mouth,” he says, words heavy on his tongue but light in his gut. The way Hannibal’s nose twitches can be either distaste or want, but the gesture is too faint for him to decide. “Please.”

“I have a high tolerance for discomfort,” Hannibal says, running hands along Will’s thighs. “There is no need to show restraint.”

“You _want_ me to rough you up.” The revelation leaves him breathless.

“Yes.” Hannibal palms him almost absently. “You execute perfect control in every aspect of your life you’re capable of, despite the occasional break, especially in relation to me.”

“I rarely have control of anything.”

“Usually, it is unintentional.” Long fingers wrap around Will’s cock, softly stroking to keep him erect. “The innocence behind your cruelty is intoxicating, and I have experienced your mercy. Make no mistake of what I am or what I am capable of doing.”

Will massages his fingertips into Hannibal’s scalp, tugging his hair. “Are you saying that I’m just the right level of confused to keep you engaged? Most people fear the reason why I carry a gun on me; either to save them or shoot them.”

“Guns are impersonal.”

“A knife then.”

“I would rather you hold me at a knife’s end, yes.”

“I’d rather kill you with my hands.”

Hannibal seeks Will’s eyes and holds them when he doesn’t shy away. For the first time this evening, he looks genuinely aroused. “How many people did you blind with your radiance during your youth, dear Will? Unfettered and unmoved by useless binds, when thirst and hunger were your only drive towards greatness? You must have shone brighter than any celestial body.”

“Smooth,” Will says, cheeks burning and the edges of his mouth turning upward. “Never would have taken you for the romantic type.”

“Only when I want to be.”

“I don’t think anyone will be able to make you do anything you don’t want to.”

Hannibal smiles. “You are welcome to try.”

The thought of bending Hannibal to his will gets him high on power, making his muscles unwind with confidence. Not for a moment does he the mistake of thinking he’s leashed and tamed the monster at his feet, but there’s a sense that Hannibal will at least converse before taking.

Will is curious of how far he can push Hannibal before he gets pushed back.

“Suck,” Will commands, and Hannibal does as he’s told.

Restraint gone, Will pushes him down while he bucks up, groaning when the head of his cock touches the back of his throat before continuing, restricting his ability to breathe. He holds him there, taking his pleasure, watching the way Hannibal’s fingers relax against the couch as he eases his body to take what Will gives.

He releases him, but Hannibal doesn’t let him pull away, immediately swallowing down again until his lips touch the base of Will’s cock.

Will watches, transfixed, as Hannibal takes and takes, working his tongue and tightening lips that seem to be made for Will to own. Spit dribbles down his chin and down Will’s dick, making him look ruined and wanton.

Heels planting themselves on the rug, Will uses them as leverage to messily fuck into Hannibal’s mouth until he comes with nothing but a soundless cry crawling up his throat.

Will collapses onto the couch with a shuddering sigh, blissfully spent and boneless as Hannibal pulls off with swollen lips and colored cheeks. He looks delightfully attractive.

“That was… Fuck.” Will is silenced with a kiss that’s hard enough to bruise, tongue prodding his as Hannibal climbs onto his lap, pressing his need against Will’s stomach. “What can I do?” he asks between kisses that border on desperate.

Hannibal shushes him. “Bedroom,” he says, sucking the bottom of Will’s lips into his mouth until he’s satisfied. “Take off your clothes and wait for me on the bed.”

“Are you going to fuck me?” Spent or not, arousal spreads along his limbs.

“We’ll see what I’m in the mood for.” Hannibal gets to his feet and tucks Will back into his pants. “I’ll be there shortly.”

Will watches him disappear into the bathroom before getting his legs to work accordingly.

Grabbing his wine glass from the table, he knocks it back and takes it into the kitchen where Hannibal’s own rests untouched. The rest of what he’d been cooking rests, now cold, on the pots and pans over the stove. Those need washing. Instead, he downs Hannibal’s wine as well, places it in the sink, and makes his way into the bedroom.

Will undresses quickly, setting down his clothes over the desk before crawling onto the bed and laying on his back. The curtains are open and the lights are on, presenting him the vivid night of Christmas Eve. He smiles, sated and satisfied, and still a little turned on at whatever Hannibal must have in store for him.

Thoughts of guilt and horror can wait until tomorrow, when he’s awake and sane enough to realize that this is a very bad idea. For now, he’ll lose himself in the heat and the attention, the bliss of being touched and worshiped.

When Hannibal returns, it’s with a cotton robe tied loosely around his waist and a small bottle in hand. He stands by the bed, taking his time to look Will over with a pleased curve on his lips. “Lovely,” he murmurs, making Will’s blood burn hot.

“Has inspiration finally struck you?” In a gesture not meant to be sexual, Will runs his hands along his stomach. The room is cold, but anticipation and that wanton gaze keep him feeling perfectly warm.

Bottle placed in Will’s hand, Hannibal climbs onto the bed and makes his way up Will’s body. With a knee on either side of his hips, he is well and truly caged in by a predator adamant to deliver him pleasure. Hannibal lowers himself onto his elbows and kisses Will’s jaw, drags the tip of his nose against the coarse hair of his beard.

“Your canvas is far from complete,” Hannibal says, placing a hand over the chest beneath him. “You should be resting.”

Will touches Hannibal in turn, pushing his hands inside the robe and absorbing the heat of his skin. He isn’t thin or flimsy, the musculature under his palms distinctly masculine. It sends a thrill racing to Will’s groin.

“I’ll rest once you’re taken care of.” He leans up for another kiss. “You brought lube.”

Hannibal’s mouth traces his jawline, tasting skin, making Will shiver and laugh whenever something tickles. He moans when a tongue presses beneath his ear, teeth grazing vein.

Will melts onto the bed, content with Hannibal unleashing havoc on his sense. He smells of rich soap and clean cotton, tastes like toothpaste, and Will feels dirty by comparison. It doesn’t bother him as much when Hannibal bites above his nipple, firing off sharp signals of delight from his toes to his fingertips.

“Taking you now will only make you uncomfortable,” Hannibal says, stroking his tongue over the reddening bite. “Perhaps another time, when you long for release rather than affection.”

Despite the burning of the tips of his ears, Will nods his head. “Can I at least, you know, give you a hand?” To counter his request, Hannibal simply takes Will’s wrists and places them beside his head. He doesn’t pin him down, but the intention is obvious. “Or not.”

Hannibal goes back to kissing, brushing lips over every inch of Will’s body like a sacred temple. Soft exhales make him squirm but he otherwise remains still, allowing Hannibal to do as he wants.

“I would like for you to watch.”

Will blinks down at him, realizes that the statement is actually a question. Rather than speak, he nods his head and readjusts himself on the bed until he’s comfortable.

He watches Hannibal disrobe, revealing slopes and curves of tanned skin, a smattering of graying hair on his chest. His stomach is taut, his build strong enough to easily hold Will down if he so chose. The curve of his cock is both alluring and intimidating, and Will is suddenly very grateful at how considerate Hannibal is being.

“You like being watched while you get off?” Will whispers, fingers curling into his palms but keeping his arms in place. He bites his lower lip when Hannibal angles his head in question. “Sorry. I tend to get a little… chatty.”

Sitting lightly over Will’s stomach, Hannibal takes the bottle from atop the sheet. “You may be as talkative as you please some other time, Will,” he says, words a hint away from forming a growl. “Tonight, I would like you to be quiet for me.”

Will nods once with a touch of hesitation. Unsure if he’s misread the situation, he lays still and watches Hannibal pour lubricant onto his palm and rub them together. He notices the almost clinical way in which he does this, detached from the ebb and flow of human connection.

Not unlike a living statue, Hannibal wraps a hand around himself and strokes methodically, not stiff and unpracticed, but precise and cool. He keeps his eyes on Will’s face, calculations slowing as his fist speeds up, but Will sees no other sign of enjoyment.

Sincerely doubting that Hannibal allows himself to be this cold in the presence of previous - and not to mention current - lovers, Will feels resentment towards the man. Confusion mixes with anger, because this is much too different from Hannibal’s previous attempts at seduction.

Will watches but doesn’t see, letting his mind wander down paths where tonight unveils itself much differently. In his mind he sees Hannibal taking him with mutual pleasure, holding him close while they both ride out the building wave of climax.

He sees something else, too. Will sees himself on his knees, hands tied above his head as Hannibal takes him from behind, pounds into him with a violence born from the darkness that lurks behind his person suit. There are fingers around his throat, controlling the very air he breathes; nails digging into skin until the blood comes close to the surface in the form of half moons.

_An unfinished canvas._ He wants to tell Hannibal to not worry, that he can’t be broken more than he already is, but the coldness in his dark eyes is enough to stall Will’s assurances.

He is not ready to face the intensity of Hannibal’s ruthlessness and cruelty. Hannibal intends to leash him before any shadow he can possibly make spooks him into running. Hannibal gives Will pleasure but takes his own with control, or else destroy the twitching creature in his bed.

Maybe one day will he see Hannibal’s true potential, and it will either awe him or terrify him. For now, he will make do with the precarious line they both walk.

The soft intonation of Will’s name on parted lips is enough to assuage his turbulent thoughts, easing him into accepting that Hannibal is thinking about him while working his cock. This experience is as cruel as it is kind, and Will accepts it. He accepts it with the sinking feeling that this monster already has its claws sunk into his bones, and laps at the blood of the wounds it’s left behind.

Will doesn’t love him, but he won’t be able to trick himself into thinking he never will grow to do so. He can see the darkness that consumes all in its path and it is a comfort to see that his void isn’t the only one in existence. They’re both alone in their fabricated identities, and they have found that they can see each other. They both push for it while the other holds up their fort, but it can only be so long until the pillars fall.

Surfacing from his thoughts, Will licks his top lip and focuses his attention on Hannibal’s hand. He watches the way those elegant fingers tunnel, applying pressure to the swollen cock and then he’s done, ropes of come shooting out and splattering along Will’s stomach and chest.

Long moments are spent in silence, with Hannibal’s eyes closed and otherwise unmoved by his orgasm. Will doesn’t shift an inch, granting him the time to nudge his pieces back into their respective places. Witnessing the fragility so cleverly hidden is a rare gift, one Will expects to covet with the rest of the man above him.

With little warning, Hannibal descends on Will with a flurry of kisses and touches, silent promises that there will be no repeat of this, even if next time kills him.

***

Will wakes to the sight of Hannibal’s sleeping face, wrapped up in clean sheets and heat and comfort. His limbs feel pleasantly heavy as well as his eyelids, and he smiles at the glint of empty wine glasses on the bedside table.

He can’t see the neon clock but he imagines dawn must be close, making him sigh with happiness at the prospect of staying in bed for a couple of more hours. His thoughts are quiet, promising him an easy path to sleep, but a light clicking sound troubles him.

It only takes him a split-second to react, already reaching for Hannibal when a second click sounds much louder, much closer to his ear.

Will is grabbed by the arm and hauled out of the bed, a gun barrel pressed snug against his temple. He opens his mouth to call out but before a single breath can escape him, the butt of the gun is slamming into him, fading the world to black.


	10. The Ascension

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Deus ex machina.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A quick moment to say **thank you** to all you lovely people who have read, kudo'd and left wonderful reviews! Bless your hearts and I hope you continue to enjoy the ride!
> 
> Trigger warning in this chapter for descriptions of graphic torture.

The subtlety of change is often lethal, fluid and insidious as time ticks onward, unbothered by pleas of mercy. Change pardons no one in the identical fashion that time stops for nothing, continuing with or without a heartbeat.

Change is natural.

_Machines change. Change, adapt, evolve._

A caterpillar shields itself within a chrysalis, unaware of time until time arrives to push it out.

A machine can learn by information input, by dissecting the chrysalis to look within. A machine has no curiosity to call its own, so it follows the commands carefully typed in by the person behind it. Algorithms teach and drive, each more complex than the last, until a machine ceases to be.

Will is neither a caterpillar or a machine although his head reads like a corrupted file, its information scrambled and indiscernible against the onslaught of running data. There is something inherently wrong with the hardware, maybe even the software, and no fingers are fast enough to bring up the firewall.

Will is trapped in an in-between where right and wrong are inconsequential, up and down are one and the same. There is no gauge for him to read, the lack of a compass leading him to the middle of a forest crawling with nightmares made of fire and brimstone.

Destruction steps in time with him, whispering words that hold no obvious meaning. The clip-clip-clip as it walks by his side serves as a soothing song, an anchor for already shaky foundations.

Bombs go off in his ears. Blood soaks his clothes. He falls through the air and feels fear at what will greet him at the bottom; hopes it’s an easy end.

What Will faces is a room, endless in its darkness, and rank. Then there’s heat, maddening heat pressing along his body in complex shapes, burning into his skin until he realizes that the ringing in his ears is his own voice calling out for help.

Will tries to move and finds something biting at his wrists, but that isn’t what pins him down to the surface of what he’s lying on. He’s caged, trapped in a chrysalis made of wire netting that hums with enough electricity to sear flesh. 

It circles him; shoulders, back, chest, and legs. His fingers and toes are numb.

He stops screaming when he realizes that he’s doing so and falls maddeningly quiet, confused and unwilling to understand where he is or how he got here, when just minutes ago he was in the comfort of a warm bed.

Shapes moving in the shadows grab what little attention he can offer. A black stag clip-clip-clips its way across an invisible floor until it stops beside his cage, nuzzling at his hands in the form of an apology.

But there is no stag, just as there is no Abigail desperately tugging at the netting, crying out for help in much the same fashion as Will had been doing. She hisses every time she touches him, cursing beneath her breath while trying to free him. She speaks to him, urgently, but words are a foreign concept Will can no longer grasp in this state.

Squeezing his eyes shut, he wills her away.

Her image fades, becoming replaced with pale blue lights that flash systematically in front of his eyes. His cheek gets padded by a soft hand before a much rougher one hits it.

“Mr. Graham, it’s best to stay awake at the moment.” The voice is almost familiar. “It wouldn’t do to pass out and never wake up.” The rest of the words blur together but the lights continue.

Blue for cold, black for hot.

His body reacts in ways he cannot control, easing and contracting in agonizingly painful spasms that cripple his muscles. He tries to straighten up but instead he attempts curling in; a fruitless battle due to the bonds holding him in place.

Commands are being yelled into his ear and he wants to yell back, tell them that he can’t move a cup while he’s tied down. He can barely move his fingers.

The flashes come and go, faster, sharper, and Will becomes liquid. He fears he’ll seep through his cage and onto the ground where he will be soaked up, made to give life to trees that no longer bear fruit. He is transient, above a reality that doesn’t exist outside of brief moments of warped lucidity.

Then, he is shocked awake.

Little makes sense in his blurred eyesight, struggling to understand what the moving shapes around him are. They make sound and come into contact with him, and for a frightening second Will fears that something is wrong until he realizes that it’s just people.

But that’s not what’s wrong, he tries to reason. What’s wrong is that he doesn’t know where he is, why he is here, and for how long. For a terrifying second he fears that he knows little else beside his name, but it comes back to him in a slow flow.

_My name is Will Graham. I don’t know where I am. I don’t know what time it is._

He comprehends that he’s in a place similar to an industrial boiler room that’s rusted and decayed with age. Pale blue and orange lights pulsate somewhere behind him, casting the pipes, monitors, and other technical equipment in an eerie glow.

Beside him is a small table with an assortment of tools he doesn’t recognize, for the exception of syringes and tiny glass vials.

“I really wanted to take the more humane approach with you, but putting you under isn’t having the desired results, Mr. Graham,” the familiar voice says. “Mr. Budge insists we increase the voltage and I’m afraid that will leave behind irreparable damage.”

There’s something along his forehead keeping his head upright and Will is vaguely grateful for the small mercy. He otherwise wouldn’t be able to look at the other man.

“Do you remember me, sir?” the young man asks, eyes big and almost kind.

A name comes quickly, faster than any other thought he’s been capable to produce. Had he any sort of energy in him, Will would have sneered. He should have known.

The young man looks delighted at seeing what must be a spark of recognition. “It’s an honor to be remembered, Mr. Graham. Even if Dr. Lecter and Mr. Verger had the majority of your attention during the game.”

Matthew approaches him then, hesitantly reaching up and adjusting something over Will’s head. The something creaks and groans, and Will jolts when sharp needles of pain bloom along his temples.

When Matthew takes a step back, he places his bloodied hands over his mouth with a look of reverent adoration. “I feel confident this is all going to work out, you know? The reaction has been limited, almost minuscule, but with you awake, it might start recognizing you.”

Will closes his eyes.

It’s difficult to discern if any time has passed once he opens them again, but the spot he stands in is drastically different. He has no way of explaining _how_ it’s different, or how he can see everything and nothing at once, but he can, and he is.

Nightmares of stepping outside his body are anything but uncommon for him, standing at a vantage point where the world unravels around him in a series of disturbing and confusing events.

There are more people in the room now, all of them tending to different machines while speaking to each other in hushed voices, taking notes on pads that aren’t there but glimmer in the dim twilight of the massive room.

What bothers him the most isn’t that he can see himself strapped to a slab, tied in an awkward position with a steal halo wrapped tightly around his head. What bothers him is that the man strapped in looks nothing like Will Graham.

He’s stripped down to his boxer and socks, the likes of which are inside a metal bucket filled with water. There isn’t a strand of hair atop his head, making the contraption on it rest warped. His beard has grown far too much, but there are slashes that are bare and bleeding.

Worst of all are the marks. Not an inch of skin has been left unbranded, the burn marks turning an ugly brown with a hint of green as they begin to grow infected.

More an abused animal than man, Will watches in horror as Matthew dabs a towel up his legs, cleaning up where he’s relieved himself.

“The power in the plant is limited, but we’ve successfully taken the first step towards Ascension.” Tobias Budge speaks somewhere to his left, but Will refuses to look away from his broken body. “Graham will be granted the opportunity to rest before being shipped to the main base.”

“How long will this take?”

That voice, however, makes Will turn away.

Hannibal stands beside Tobias with his hands inside his pockets, face its usual mask of professional indifference. Bruise on his cheek aside, he looks unharmed.

“Difficult to say, but not as long as expected,” Tobias says, smiling triumphantly. “The amount of success we’ve seen here is unprecedented, Hannibal. Three weeks ago, our staff had no heading, plagued with dead ends whichever way they went. Today, we’re looking at the horizon of a new era.”

“The time of kings has passed, Tobias.”

“It has not, my friend. Our machines will conquer, lay waste to those who dare stand in our way to victory.” Tobias moves to stand face to face with Hannibal, his posture jovial.

“Machines that will be forfeited to the highest bidder,” Hannibal says with an understanding nod. “Ensuring your security, wealth, and immortality.”

“Precisely.” Tobias laughs, pats Hannibal’s shoulder. “When our time comes, we will ascend past this filthy humanity.”

“But before then, we are to stand and watch humanity pull itself apart by following orders set forth by your people,” Hannibal says, dismantling and shedding light upon Tobias’ motive. “Vessels of flesh and bone but minds vacant, filled instead with a conscience of your choosing.”

“Artificial Intelligence should not be deposited within a container of nuts and bolts,” he says with a nod, glad that Hannibal understands. “It needs an organic home for it to be nurtured, for it to grow.” Tobias turns to face Will, hands clasped in front of his chest. “This is the next step in human evolution.”

Hannibal remains still, considering.

When he starts moving, it’s to pace along the length of the floor. Thoughtful. “Removing the pulp from the ayale fruit can create a practical dish, as many Pre-Columbian tribes did along the Caribbean isles. But in doing so, they discarded the fruit’s curative properties, burying their children in exchange for the luxury.”

“Advancement requires sacrifice. They would still be eating off plantain leaves.”

“Perhaps the analogy wasn’t urgent enough.”

“Perhaps our priorities aren’t quite the same,” Tobias says, clenching his hands together. “Me, I’m more practical, as is the interest of InRon Dynamics. You, while you appreciate the idea of a higher level of mind, are fond of people as they are. Makes them easier to poke.”

Hannibal only blinks, and Will is perplexed by how easily he can read the man’s every minuscule gesture. A smug superiority that says Tobias has entirely missed his point.

“I appreciate your artistry, Hannibal, I truly do. I respect your skill and your ability, the majesty with which you sculpt and create in your image.” Tobias’ smile turns into something pitiful, almost disappointed. “But times have changed.”

“It’s the prospect of death that drives us to greatness,” Hannibal says, finally stopping to steadily look at him. “Without it, we’d be at a loss.”

“You would rather die?”

“I’ve always found the idea of death comforting. The thought that my life could end at any moment frees me to fully appreciate the beauty and art and horror of everything this world has to offer.”

Will watches, rooted to his spot on the floor, while Tobias picks up an assortment of colored wires from a desk and wraps each end around his hands. He pulls them taut, and shrugs.

“We always did have very different points of view,” he says.

Tobias moves forth with the grace and ferocity of a lion poised to attack, striking without hesitation in an attempt to wrangle Hannibal in, but Hannibal sidesteps easily.

Each rapid strike is met with a subtly evasive step, knuckles barely grazing any part of him.

There’s a slight curl to Hannibal’s mouth as he effortlessly moves about, delighting in the challenge before him. His first sign of effort is when he redirects one of Tobias’ fist about to come into contact with his face. He grips, steps to the side and hoists the arm up, making Tobias grunt before a kick to the back sends him hurtling forward.

He catches himself against a desk, sending a monitor crashing to the floor before regaining his footing.

Will’s attention is torn between the fight and the people fleeing the room, some heading for the exit and others deeper into the building. Matthew approaches Will’s unconscious body, alarmed but without urgency, and touches his cheek before heading into a hallway on the far left, opposite of where he stands.

A huff from Hannibal has Will turning again, unable to shift his feet when both men collide with a twist of pipes. There’s blood now, most of it running down Hannibal’s nose, but Tobias is favoring his left leg.

Pushed away and struggling not to fall, Tobias pulls the wires as far as they go before realizing that Hannibal won’t be put in the position for them to be effective. He discards them then, bringing up his hands in a defensive posture.

Years of close quarter combat training tell Will that Hannibal is a lot more experienced than any of them had expected, judging by the way he executes each measured jab and evasion. He moves with the elegance of a dancer, quick on the mind and even quicker on his feet.

The two of them are locked in a dangerous waltz across the floor, neither leading nor following, but there is a controlled aspect to each assault. There is control because losing it does not promise disaster, but beautiful destruction.

Will blinks and soon finds himself in another room, seeing pale gray hallways each as nondescript as the next.

Unable to explain or rationalize the sequence of events since waking up, he takes it in stride and watches, analyzes what he can do and how to pull himself from the waking nightmares.

Matthew deposits his clipboard on a table, taking the card hanging around his neck and sliding it over a keypad. He inputs a series of numbers and the door opens to a dark room that is just as long as it is wide, its ceiling low enough to merit him to crouch.

The west wall is divided into cubicles similar to cells, each door donning a window small enough to fit a hand through. The room smells foul with chemicals, and the faint beep of machinery is discernible against the dull padding within the doors.

Within each block is a person, all of them different. Different sex, gender, ethnicity. Long hair, short hair, no hair. Green eyes, blue eyes, brown eyes. Each difference is an acute ping in Will’s mind, an understanding that the key rests somewhere in the diversity.

One person doesn’t fit any of the patterns he can see forming in the back of his mind.

Abigail Hobbs sits curled against a corner, picking away at blisters on her fingertips. Her hair is matted, but she is otherwise unharmed.

Her cell door opens and in steps Matthew, a false smile on his face when walking in to kneel in front of her. He reaches out a hand to touch her shoulder and she jolts, tightening the breath in Will’s chest.

“Not here to hurt you, Miss Hobbs. Just came to make sure you’re doing okay.”

“I’ll be a lot better if you let me go home,” she snaps, voice strong despite the tiniest waver.

“I’m afraid we can’t do that.”

“They’ll find me. The people Hannibal and Will are working for? They’ll find all of us, and when they do, you’re gonna be sorry for this bullshit.”

Matthew cocks his head to the side, a sense of wonder touching his eyes. “Dr. Lecter and Mr. Graham no longer work for the people you think, Miss Hobbs. They can’t.” He speaks softly, as if addressing a wounded animal. “They _will_ come looking, but not to help them.”

Abigail draws her knees to her chest, inching away from the man. “You’re wrong.”

“Oh, no, no,” he says with a chuckle. “We made sure to get all the pieces to fall into place at the time we needed them to.” He leaves, only to come back with a bottle of water for her. “Turns out Mr. Graham said a little bit too much about his work to you, Miss Hobbs. And Dr. Lecter has some very concerning ties to the man he’s about to murder just… some fifty feet outside this room.”

“You’re lying.”

“As it turns out, the Agency also knows about the connection between Dr. Lecter and your father, Miss Hobbs.” He holds the lip of the bottom to Abigail’s mouth, and she drinks greedily despite her involuntary tensing. “Double agents are often hung by both sides of the coin. Mr. Hobbs was beginning to seem like too much of a liability.”

Abigail gasps, water sloshing down her blouse as she jerks away from him. “My father was a good man.”

“Your father murdered innocent people to make the rich richer and to keep the poor right under the soles of their feet. Your father delivered weapons under the guise of a CIA operative to secure his family’s financial future. A noble thing, really. Warms the cockles of the heart to see the lengths a man would go for his daughter. Even betraying his own country.”

“Stop it.”

“Did it ever bother you? When he’d tell you about the people he’d pull the trigger on? The same people he dined with, spent time with, became friends with. When he’d speak about the inhumane things he would have had to do, did you feel any guilt at all at the knowledge that he did it all for you?”

Abigail’s shoulders tremble as sobs threaten to escape, but not a sound comes out. She looks Matthew in the eyes and curses him. “What’s it to you?”

“Nothing,” he says, putting the bottle by her legs before standing up as tall as possible given the restrained dimensions of the room. “Just gifting you with something to think about while the clock counts down. Simple comforts.”

Matthew retreats, pulling the door closed behind him.

Will lingers, present in the cell but somehow away from it, frowning down at the young woman who now sobs freely into her knees. Her frame trembles and he longs to embrace her, comfort her with words that promise all will be okay in the end. Unfortunately, he still can’t pin the reason why he can see but not move.

He can, however, think.

Nightmare or hallucination, Matthew’s words reverberate with convincing truth. A truth that incites such rage in Will that he finally manages to physically lash out, the side of his fist colliding with the steel walls around him. Abigail doesn’t react to the sound, but she does lift her head when the power surges.

That Garret Jacob Hobbs would betray their mission, however disastrous, holds a note of humorous irony. It’s a well accented _fuck you_ from beyond the grave, leaving Will to wonder if he did, in fact, make the right call in letting the ring take him. It pleases Will because it makes Hobbs’ death justifiable.

If Hannibal has been involved, it’s really no surprise. The man is so intricately tied into the very fabric of Will’s life, it would be a wonder if he alone hadn’t been the cause of Will’s so many failures. He’s inescapable, a constant, and the idea is strangely welcomed.

Hannibal Lecter is the mastermind who has grown so fascinated with Will Graham that he no longer feels threatened with death by his hand. Pain and extortion he expects, readies himself for it. That he will meet his end at Hannibal’s expense is inescapable, but not yet. As long as the man continues to breathe, Will is free to walk with his own feet, and that’s comfort enough.

Turning his head, Will finds that he’s once again beside his body, and that Hannibal and Tobias are beginning to grow tired.

There is a significantly bigger amount of bruises now, more blood, and Tobias’ right arm hangs limp by his side.

Hannibal is far from untouched. A cut on his cheek has most of the bottom half of his face shining red in the dim light. His suit is rumpled and torn in places, he’s limping, but it does little to deter the violence of his movement.

Will watches Hannibal knock the legs out from under Tobias, sending the man crashing to the floor.

Tobias makes a feeble attempt to get up but doesn’t, choosing instead to shimmy himself away from him.

Hannibal looks down at him, considering, before approaching the main monitor in the room. He fiddles with the keyboard, sliding buttons and tapping characters Will doesn’t recognize before a shock of alarm grips him. He hits one more button, and Will blinks at him.

“Initiate sequence?” Will hears himself ask, and he’s startled at the sound of his voice coming from elsewhere.

Hannibal nods his head and takes a solid, heavy decorative block from the desk. “One, five, zero, one, one, nine,” he says, ignoring Tobias’ agitated grumbles. “Initiate.”

Involuntarily, Will feels himself nod as he watches Hannibal straddle Tobias’ back. He feels nothing as he watches the man smash the stainless steel cube into the back of his head, twice, before passing out. With the same unearthly calm, Hannibal frames Tobias’ head between his hands and twists.

The final snap that announces Tobias Budge’s death leaves something to be desired, but in the back of his mind, numbers are counting down.

Time is running out and Hannibal knows it, this much is true when he stands before Will’s restrained body. He considered it, thoughtfully, and for a flash of a moment Will understands that Hannibal is debating whether or not he should leave him here. Will can almost read his thoughts, taking into consideration his chances of running and surviving, whether the effort would be worth it.

Will feels no anger at this, no remorse. Were he in his own head, he would probably thank Hannibal for letting it all end. But Hannibal doesn’t.

While the bonds are cut, Hannibal muttering words in a language Will can’t understand, there’s a period of nothingness, before everything burns itself into every single cell in his body.

Flashes of information he can’t decode, surges of electricity that displace him over a puzzle too big to comprehend. He’s nowhere and everywhere and it burns white hot, maddening in its endlessness. 

For a moment Will wonders if this is what it’s like to know all of the answers. To understand truths that humans are not meant to make sense of. 

This is Ascencion.

Ripped from his mind and given free reign.

This is madness.

This is torture, and Will needs for it to stop.

When he opens his eyes he’s facing Hannibal, who is still removing the locks that keep him in place. Will’s eyes see Hannibal but there’s more than that. There’s a current of information that won’t stop, a current that overflows and engulfs him, drowns them both because Hannibal stops what he’s doing to look at him with a hint of confusion.

There are names coming out of Will’s mouth. First names and last names, drawn together by invisible lines that shouldn’t exist. There are faces to those names, but he can’t see them with clarity; just messy puddles of colors with hardly any distinctive features.

Will can’t stop his mouth from running, fears the alienness in Hannibal’s eyes when recognition hits him. It isn’t long until Will realizes what it is he’s saying, what list he’s reading out until the last name stumbles out of his dry mouth. _Tobias Budge_.

The agonizing heat stops when the contraption on his head is violently removed, leaving Will wide-eyed and lost, swimming in thoughts that are not his own. Dark and violent thoughts that torment him, broken and lonely thoughts that choke.

Will opens his mouth and the sound that comes out is that of a mild whimper, a sob that awakens every abused inch of his body. He’s tired, desperately so, and he can feel lucidness slipping away from him again.

He recalls falling forward and he expects the cold impact of concrete, but instead, what greets him is a warm expanse of fabric before the world escapes his grasp.


	11. The Change

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> That first month is gone from memory, leaving only scarring flashes of lucidity. All he can vividly recall is the physical coldness inside his skull and an eagerness to die.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for somewhat spoilers (location and character) for the first episode of season three. Also, bottom!Hannibal makes an appearance.

“I am the unreliable narrator of my own story,” Will announces once the apartment door quietly clicks closed. He sits before the fireplace with his back towards it, but he can see Hannibal enter through the mirror above the mantel.

Hannibal, reptilian and beautiful Hannibal, simply stands there and removes his leather jacket to reveal blood stained clothing. His hands are clean, hair unkempt, and Will would not be surprised if he’s angry at having been caught sneaking in at two in the morning.

There’s a brief bout of stillness between them, neither speaking, before Hannibal starts towards their bedroom. He emerges shortly after, outer layers of clothing gone as if to bear the splotches of gore like medals of honor. He carries with him two wine glasses and sets them on the table before Will, serves them wine.

“We are having this conversation,” Hannibal says, and it’s a statement, not a question. “How are you feeling, Will?”

“Unstable.” He takes the glass he’s given, inclines his head in gratitude. “Heavy. Like I’m moving through a vat of slime and it’s already reaching my waist. I am… _scattered_ , like autumn leaves going wherever the wind takes them.” Will licks his dry lips, swallows hard. “I don’t feel alive.”

Hannibal takes the seat next to him, crossing his legs. “What did you see?”

Will watches Hannibal’s reflection and finds himself thinking that he’s done that an awful lot. It’s easier to see the entirety of Hannibal through the filter of a mirror, rather than with his own eyes. A mirage projected, rather than a real entity.

“Everything,” he says with a self-deprecating smile. “I was everywhere and everything had made its home in my head.” Will stares at the crackling fire, stroking the glass but not drinking from it. “That shouldn’t have been possible,” he whispers, fearing that madness has finally settled in.

Hannibal doesn’t respond, but Will sees him taking in a deep breath. He’s reminded of his dogs scenting the air for potential predators, or food, and he no longer feels like sharing his nightmares.

It’s been been three months since they’ve arrived in Florence, under the radar and on the run.

Will can count the amount of words they have exchanged during their stay. 

That first month is gone from memory, leaving only scarring flashes of lucidity. All he can vividly recall is the physical coldness inside his skull and an eagerness to die.

Mostly, Hannibal has given him space once he came to his own, tending to Will only when he’s given the nod to. Even that process goes quietly, with Hannibal peeling away ruined skin and applying balm to soothe the agony. His face is more or less intact, but the same can’t be said for Will’s body.

The pattern of chain link fencing has been branded onto him. There are toenails missing. He’s battered and bruised and he hates himself, hates standing before the mirror and seeing the mess of him. He feels ugly. Hannibal continuously trims his hair so it can grow evenly, but it’s still too short.

It’s been three months since InRon has buried them with evidence of their past crimes, not all of it authentic. Enemies of the State, wanted for illegal distribution of bio-weapons to rival governments, the selling of State secrets, the kidnapping of the daughter of a former field operative, and the murder of an American ally.

“I know the name of every person who was present at the factory,” Will says. “Or, knew. The information is seeping out of me the more I sleep.”

“We underestimated the advancements of their technology.”

“Underestimated?” The word is accompanied by an incredulous laugh. “Hannibal, I was a computer for fuck knows how long. I saw _everything_ , I knew everything. I was in the entire building at once and - and…”

“Will.”

“It shouldn’t be possible. It sounds crazy. It _is_ crazy, and it all feels like a warped dream.”

“You’ve been through an extremely traumatic event.”

Will finally turns his head to look at him, deadpan. “I was strapped to a metal slab with my feet in a bucket of water. I was electrocuted, repeatedly. Every single inch of me was violated, tormented, tortured.”

“And you will achieve nothing if you choose to recklessly lash out,” Hannibal says, tone calm and just this side of gentle. “Seeking revenge will only lead you to certain death.”

“They killed Abigail.” He does nothing to hide the break in his voice. “She’s gone because of them.”

There’s another lapse of silence in which Hannibal nurses his drink and shuts his eyes. “I initiated the destruction sequence.”

“You didn’t know she was there.” Will watches him, wearily, knowing that he’s wrong. “Tell me you didn’t know.”

When Hannibal doesn’t immediately answer, Will pushes up from his chair and places the glass over the table.

He’s too tired to fight, to hollowed out and torn to shreds to so much as throw a punch. But he wants to. Will has never felt the need to maim this strong. It would be so satisfying to grip Hannibal’s throat and squeeze, to see the light leave his eyes.

Upon waking up Will discovered that he no longer feels like himself. Every emotion is triplicated in intensity, spread like a web that fires up around his brain whenever words - or a lack of them - set him off. He doesn’t feel powerful or superior, but he feels vindicated.

The man who stands by Hannibal’s feet is someone different from the idealistic boy who ran through Shanghai committing unspeakable acts in the name of the American government, different from the young man plagued with nightmares who hid behind a monitor and a comlink.

“Who did you kill?” Will asks, moving to stand between Hannibal’s knees and looking down at him with nothing but contempt. “You get to blow off steam and I don’t?” Eyes that almost shine black look up at him, face otherwise unreadable. “Where’s the meat?”

Hannibal is as still as a statue, watching Will with the precision of a hawk. “I fear it wasn’t that kind of performance,” he says, betraying nothing. “A simple solidifying of our presence here.”

Will nods, slowly. “Whose life did you steal for us?”

“We are now Dr. and Mr. Fell,” Hannibal says. There’s more to it. “And I have also made a new friend.”

Incredulous but too frayed to care much for it, Will nods again. “I’m angry at you,” he says, vaguely gesturing down at him. It’s easier to announce than to demonstrate. “Over a lot of things.”

“I have no illusions of our unvoiced agreement being simple.”

“But we’re in the same boat whether we like it or not,” Will concludes. “Two sides of the same coin.”

The set of Hannibal’s brow says he disagrees. “We have the opportunity to be.”

Will wants to remind him that they’re both killers and that he’s already partaken, willingly, in the consumption of a kill. He doesn’t, because while it may be true, their circumstances are vastly different.

“I won’t be able to sit by and do nothing,” he says with the conviction of man who has nothing left to lose. “Feel free to play whatever role you want, but I’m not stopping until I see them pay for their transgressions.”

Hannibal graciously bows his head, and smiles. “Of course, I will not stand idly by during our stay, however long that may be.” He takes a sip of his wine. “Do you trust me?”

“Less than completely.”

“Then give it time,” he says, easing the mask away and allowing Will a glimpse within. “Give us time to make our way out of this maze. Let the fly grow complacent before the spider strikes.”

Will wants to argue that he will grow stagnant here, doing nothing, wallowing in his abject misery. Realistically, he knows that he needs time to heal and build up his strength once again. The anger raging within quietens at this, a more rational process of thinking taking up the dark spaces in his head.

There is nothing for him to fear anymore. There is nothing to do but wait. And it no longer is as simple as walking into a building and pulling a trigger. This is now personal, and it requires a level of intimacy.

***

The gold ring is heavy on Will’s finger, a reminder of the evolution of their false identities. From illicit lovers to husbands, Will wonders if there is some underlying symbolism in regard to their authentic relationship. It’s not professional, not anymore. It isn’t romantic either, although Hannibal does go out of his way to shower Will with an odd brand of affection. The relationship is personal.

It is also lustful, but Will’s interest in anything physical has dwindled considerably since escaping the factory. More often than not, he can feel Hannibal’s eyes on him, undressing him while going through menial tasks around their apartment. Will expresses his gratitude at Hannibal’s respect towards not being touched in little ways, like not shutting the man out of the bathroom when he showers.

The scars are beginning to fade, leaving pale marks along his skin. Hannibal remarked that it makes Will look like an exotic feline with his own unique pattern. It did little to ease his anxiety, but even a little can go a long way.

Will measures time by the growth of his hair. Just this morning his curls had rested over his shoulders, and Hannibal had been kind enough to cut them at an appropriate length. He’s beginning to look like himself again, but there’s a very big difference he hasn’t failed to notice. The change echoes in Hannibal.

He notices it when he visits the museum, when he watches Hannibal walk down the stairs and into the courtyard. There’s a spring in his step, a curl to his mouth, a hand in the pocket of a beige Italian suit that is far simpler than anything he’s worn in America.

Maybe they’ve sunk so far into their personas that they have forgotten who they are, but as of right now, Will can feel the surge of contentment that manifests in his chest. Hannibal, too, looks at peace, even delighted with the world around him.

His smile is infectious when he spots Will, pulling the hand out of his pocket to wrap around Will’s back and pull him close. Hannibal presses a warm kiss to his cheek and that’s okay, kisses are permitted. Will enjoys those.

“Had you told me you were coming, I would have made reservations for us,” Hannibal says, his eyes warm. “Something simple for lunch, then?”

Without thinking, Will rests a hand over Hannibal’s chest, the ring gleaming in the bright late summer sunlight. “Sounds good,” he mutters, looking at the supple mouth in front of him.

Will won’t deny the attraction despite his unwillingness to act too much on it. Hannibal is almost obscenely handsome in a way that he should not be, given the peculiarity of his looks. His charm is most likely the cause of that.

“You look well,” Hannibal says, pulling away enough to give him a once-over. “And beautiful.”

Face warming, Will looks off towards the museum entrance. He’s taken to hiding under multiple layers of clothing, covering every inch of his scarred flesh, but that’s not to say he hasn’t done so fashionably. After all, he is Dr. Hannibal Lecter’s - or, for the sake of the con, Dr. Roman Fell’s - husband.

Before Will can retort, they’re interrupted by a lively call from a man who walks quickly across the courtyard. The man smiles wide. “Buongiorno!”

Hannibal turns to the man, putting a proper amount of distance between he and Will, but keeping his arm around Will’s waist. “Mr. Dimmond,” he greets.

“Sorry I’m early. I was hoping to catch you before you left,” the man says before turning to Will with a look that knocks him off balance. “You must be the lucky Mr. Fell.” He holds out a hand for Will to take. “Antony Dimmond.”

Will takes it and isn't surprised by the softness of it. “Hello,” he says stiffly, but Antony’s eyes are on Hannibal again.

“You’ve caught me just in time,” Hannibal says, letting the hand on Will’s waist dip low enough for it to be indecent. “Would you grant us the pleasure of your company for lunch?”

Antony looks from Hannibal to Will, and try as he may to be discreet, his eyes drift to the blatantly possessive hold on his hip. His mouth twitches into a bigger smile, and Will can read the man’s intentions so easily it’s difficult not to scoff.

“I wouldn’t want to intrude.”

“Nonsense,” Will finds himself speaking before he can think better of it. “My husband and I would love to have you.” His words are headier than expected, and this much is obvious by the way both men look at him.

“Is it _that_ kind of party?” Antony asks, his attractive face smoothing out into something sensual.

It’s Hannibal’s turn to look from Antony to Will, eyes a little too jovial and alive with curiosity as to how this will pan out.

The day’s good mood refusing to seep out keeps Will on his toes, and instead of answering he simply smiles coyly before turning to lead the way back to their apartment.

The man is physically appealing, Will gives him that much. Were he in any other state of mind, he wouldn’t have minded taking both men to his bed, but as it is, his wants and needs are elsewhere.

“Maybe I should purchase some wine for the occasion,” Antony eventually says. Intentional or not, he’s placed himself between Hannibal and Will. “What’s on the menu?”

“Oysters, acorns, and Masala,” Hannibal says, only partly joking. There’s a steak labeled for today. “There is no need for that. I have a entire cellar to choose from.”

Antony squints, fidgets with the scarf around his shoulders. His hair is briefly ruffled by the breeze, and Will is momentarily taken aback by the realization that, under softer lighting and a few drinks, they have striking physical similarities.

Rather than glaring at Hannibal, Will nods to himself, understanding the obscured message.

“That’s what the Romans would feed their animals to improve their meat's flavor,” Antony mentions as an off-handed remark.

Will’s own retort isn’t as off-handed. “My husband has a very sophisticated palate. He’s very particular about how I taste.”

***

It is not that kind of party, much to Antony’s disappointment. He proves himself as enjoyable company, albeit grating with the sarcasm that hangs on his tongue like a second language. By the time the bottle is corked and put away, he’s given up on his attempt to seduce, and instead washes Hannibal with praise and veiled innuendos.

When he leaves, he presses a kiss to Will’s cheek. A peace offering of sorts, and the amusement dances on Hannibal’s face as he closes the door behind him.

The apartment smells faintly of cologne and sugar.

“He seems taken with you,” Will says, crossing his arms over his chest while walking towards the balcony. “What have you told him?”

“Nothing.” Hannibal joins him, leaning against the railing, close enough to touch. “He expressed a dislike towards certain academics and I obliged him in conversation.”

“It looks like you’ve obliged him in something else, too.”

“Jealousy is quite becoming of you,” and he almost sounds sheepish admitting it.

“I’ve nothing to be jealous of, do I,” he assures him. Will presses a thumb against the top button of his vest, his imagination threatening to grace him with images he can really do without. “Just curious if you’ve slept with him, is all.”

Hannibal watches him. “No.” Simple, and honest.

They watch Antony cross the street with a bounce in his step, absently tapping away at his phone and rushing the last few inches towards the sidewalk when a bus drives by.

“But you want to.”

Hannibal pouts, and the gesture never fails to be strangely endearing. “If offered the choice to observe or participate, I would rather observe.” He shifts his weight from one foot to the other, canting his hips to the side as if to bump them against Will’s. “You know where my desires lie, Will. I would have very much enjoyed observing your descent into pleasure.”

A laugh bubbles in his chest, but he keeps it there. “You would have liked to watch him do me.” Will nods, very slowly. “No participation on your behalf at all.”

“Unless you wanted it so. Also, I would rather you be the one taking him.”

Heat stirs in Will’s gut, the conversational tone of their words doing nothing to dull how dirty it all is. “Right. I take Mr. Dimmond, you watch. Sounds sexy.” This last carries as much sarcasm as he can possibly muster.

Hannibal is smiling again, a thin lipped one that is more mischievous than anything else. “Would you allow me to tell you how I pictured an evening with the three of us?”

Will wants to retort that there is no _three of us_ but doesn’t, knowing it would sound childish. Instead, he straightens up and turns to head back inside. “Is this going to end up with you and I having sex?”

Closing the doors behind them and drawing the curtains, Hannibal shrugs. “If you’d like to.”

Their last attempt at sex, months ago during their short stay in Vienna, left a lot to be desired. While pleasant, to be swallowed down by Hannibal’s sinfully hot mouth, and straddled by the same man while working himself to his release was, the situation had been tedious. Physically they were together, but mentally they had been miles away, balancing over a rope that would have sent either of them to their deaths.

Standing here, Will feels none of that dangerous tension. There’s a playful air to Hannibal’s eagerness, a connection that pulls at Will’s attention. This can be pleasurable for the both of them.

Will turns his back to Hannibal to lock the front door. “Tell me how it would begin, Dr. Lecter.”

Hands land on his hips, nearly startling him into action as he turns to stand chest to chest with Hannibal. He looks good with just a button down and a waist coat.

Hannibal holds him, looking coyly through thick lashes. “After dinner, dishes put away and dessert resting in our stomachs, I serve myself a glass of wine and take a seat,” he says, gesturing towards the armchair he’s referring to.

“Are you fully dressed?” Will asks, eyes losing focus to dedicate himself to the fantasy Hannibal is narrating.

“All but for my jacket, which I have left on our bed.” Hannibal’s hands stray lower until they rest over the swell of Will’s ass. “The first two buttons of my shirt are undone.”

“No tie.”

“No tie,” he murmurs, pulling Will closer. “Mr. Dimmond is adamant to not undress you despite your protests. He says you look far too alluring in such a form-fitting suit.”

“Has he kissed me?”

“Hungrily.” The word is purr that has Will’s lips parting. “Mr. Dimmond has exquisite taste, if I do say so myself.”

“He wants you more than he wants me.”

“He wants us,” Hannibal says, enunciating each word with care. “Our friend is greedy, and that doesn’t sit well with you, does it? So you divest him, command him to keep the scarf on.”

Will chuckles at the absurdity of it, but nods his head in appreciation. “His sense of fashion can’t exactly compare.”

“Never.” Hannibal drags his mouth along the stubble of Will’s jaw but does little else. Against it, he whispers, “What would you like to do to him, Will? You are participating, after all.”

He sighs, seeing the clear image manifest behind his eyelids. “Bent over the table,” he gasps out, the last of his blood steadily pumping below his belt. “I want him bent over the dining room table. More convenient.”

“Convenient?”

Will nods, wrecked by a desire that is purely his, but not in its entirety. “The intention is to devour him, isn’t it?” he asks, trembling under Hannibal’s touch. “To push my way inside him until we’re both ready to burst? Until we’re both sated and he’s milked me to the last drop?”

Will grunts when his back collides against the door, Hannibal bodily pinning him with little effort. “And what of me, dear Will? Tell me what joy I’ll drink from this.”

“You can have me.” A moan when Hannibal latches onto Will’s neck, teeth scraping against hot skin. “Push your fingers nice and deep inside of me as I fuck our little poet.”

The rip of fabric that is soon followed by a rain of buttons pulls Will out of the vivid fantasy, leaving him staring blearily at a Hannibal that looks far more terrifying than ever. The naked hunger, the gleam of something akin to betrayal shining in his eyes leave Will weak at the knees.

“You will do no such thing,” he murmurs heavily, each word permeated with a desperate want. “I’m afraid Mr. Dimmond will never have the pleasure of touching you, nor will he ever experience pleasure by your hand.”

Unable to help himself, Will arches his back, bringing his hips close to Hannibal in an insufferable tease. “Jealousy is quite becoming of you, Hannibal. But you have nothing to be jealous of.” When he moves to undo the buttons of Will’s shirt, he is promptly stopped with a touch to the wrist.

“Will.” The single word is both a plea and a warning, and Will feels heady with a sense of power.

“You are going to undress,” Will says, taking quick stock of the apartment around them. “And you’re going to wait until I tell you what I want to do with you, okay?” He doesn’t allow his voice to shake, holding to every bit of authority he can in his aroused state.

To his credit, Hannibal seems unfazed as he takes a step back. To Will’s delight, the tent in front of his pants is near mouthwatering.

“Will we need lubricant?” The question is hopeful despite the evenness he carries.

Closing the space between only for a moment, Will nods his head and steals the quickest of kisses.

When Hannibal vanishes into their bedroom, Will quickly gets to work. He doesn’t question where the sudden bravado comes from, or the desperate need to claim and control, but he chalks it off to delayed adrenaline. 

The past few months have bled together into a concoction of feelings too vivid to ignore; anger, betrayal, grief, pain, and horror. To finally see himself standing here, wrapped in alien happiness and an irrational bout of possession, it’s too much. Will needs to blow off, and Hannibal has pushed every button to get him started.

He treats the antique mirror with care while dismounting it from its hooks and leaning it against the wall. The widest of chaise lounges is dragged across the wooden floor to rest in front of said mirror, and he throws the pillows onto the ground. He vaguely considers asking Hannibal to bring a sheet as to not ruin the fabric, but the man chooses that moment to emerge into the parlor wearing nothing but a smattering of hair on his chest and a heavy cock between his legs.

Not the first time he’s seen Hannibal naked, but it’s clearly the first time he’s seen him naked with the intent of fucking him.

Keeping the blatant smugness away from his face, Hannibal hands Will the clear bottle before turning towards the ensemble Will has prepared for them. “Whose ego will be catered to here? Yours, or mine?”

“That depends,” Will says, stepping close enough to run a hand down Hannibal’s bicep. The muscles coil and jump under the touch, and Will considers whether or not he’d rather enjoy being the one pinned down instead. “Does being eaten out stroke your ego?”

Hannibal lifts an eyebrow, and the gesture is almost funny enough to merit a laugh. “Does penetrating me with your tongue stroke yours?”

“A little,” Will confesses, palming his crotch when Hannibal looks him over. “Get on the chair. All fours.”

With more grace than Will could ever hope to achieve, Hannibal kneels at one end of the seat. He’s able to spread his knees far enough to keep his balance as he lowers his head onto his forearms, back arching elegantly.

Will has to take a moment, enraptured by a sight that is so rarely experienced. Hannibal is beautiful in his submission, prostrated for Will and Will alone, and it leaves his lungs aching for air.

Hannibal speaks, but Will only catches the last word of his question. “What?”

“I asked if you would rather bind my wrists?”

Will’s jaw moves but doesn’t properly work. He eventually shakes his head when reality returns to him. “No, no, that’s… Maybe next time.”

Without sparing another word, Will goes to his knees and parts Hannibal’s cheeks.

A surprised jerk of his hips is the only reaction Will gets, and the only one he expects, when he presses his lips to Hannibal. He teases, kisses and sucks only for a little while before applying his tongue to him, pressing enough to be felt but not enough to break inside.

Will takes his time before working him open, stiffening his tongue, pushing and pulling out in slow strokes. While it may be far from being his prefered sexual act, Will can appreciate the intimacy of it. Every suppressed sound reverberates along Hannibal’s body until it is delivered to Will’s tongue, proving distinctly honest.

He kisses his way down the perineum, balls, and the base of Hannibal’s cock. Will suckles at the skin he can reach, playfully scrapes his teeth over the hot skin of a cheek. Slowly, he pulls Hannibal apart with fleeting touches and soft sounds, the likes of which are beginning to be eagerly reciprocated.

Lubricant is poured onto his fingers and those soon join Will’s tongue as it works on getting Hannibal ready. He loosens enough when Will is three fingers in, massaging muscles and searching for the spot he hopes will draw more sounds out of Hannibal.

“Will,” he says, the single word whispered like a sacred prayer.

“Ready?”

Hannibal nods a yes, arching his back in a way that offers up his ass for Will’s taking.

Standing up on shaky legs, Will slicks up and positions himself, the tip of his cock rubbing soft circles along the stretched muscle of Hannibal’s hole. He doesn’t move immediately, savoring the rich anticipation of what he’s about to do.

Will only gives him the bulbous tip, pushing in just enough to make its presence known before backing out. The sensation sends shivers down his spine, watching Hannibal’s body give way to his teasing, hungrily trying to pull him in.

Hannibal is quiet, but his attention is on the mirror beside them. His enraptured stare warms Will’s face with embarassed glee, enough to make him abandon his teasing and push the rest of the way inside.

This gets a low, drawn out moan from Hannibal, and Will momentarily closes his eyes. The velvety heat, so tight and maddeningly delicious, is almost enough to push him over the edge. He refrains from moving once he’s completely in, letting the hand that doesn’t have Hannibal’s hip in a bruising grip roam along the wide plains of his back.

The intention had been to draw this out, to drive Hannibal mad with touches that are nowhere near enough to bring him to completion. Will wanted to torment him with building pleasure, to turn the refined and polished man into a quivering mass of want. Torment him until he’s writhing beneath him, shivering and quivering until Will is merciful enough to grant him release. But Will has underestimated his own need.

He sets a pace that’s fast, hard enough to move the chair underneath them. He regrets not having removed his clothing, his pants insisting on getting in the way before they get pushed further down his hips.

He slows then, pushing in hard and staying, before dragging out slow enough to make him moan.

Hannibal’s mouth rests parted against the seat’s cushion, eyes at half mast and slicked with sweat. His sounds are soft, more panting than anything, as Will continues to give and take.

Leaning over, resting his chest over Hannibal’s back, Will kisses his shoulderblades. He spreads open-mouthed kisses across slick skin, quietly worshiping it as he brings up a hand to wrap around Hannibal’s cock. This earns him an appreciative hum in turn, a shove backwards in a silent plea for more. Fingers tunneling, Will jerks him off in tune with his thrusts.

Hannibal comes with a hitch of breath and a slight shudder, eyes on the mirror.

They stay still, calming down and gathering themselves, Will shifting his hips and grinning at the knowledge that he will soon fill Hannibal up with his seed. Elated, Will sucks a kiss onto Hannibal’s neck, one that’s too high to be hidden by the average collar. Hannibal doesn’t complain.

“How did you meet him?” Will whispers hoarsely into the sweat-damp hair at Hannibal’s neck. “And why have you kept him?” The last word is accompanied by a sharp thrust into the body that shudders beneath him.

“A soiree,” he says in turn, nudging his knees closer when Will deposits the rest of his weight on top of him. “He knew the late Dr. Fell. Needless to say, Antony is interested in our motives.”

“Anyone else would have gone to the police.” Will breathes raggedly against Hannibal’s skin, steadily working his hips to keep himself at attention. “Aren’t you suspicious of him?”

“He mentioned Du Maurier on a previous meeting.” Hannibal shuts his eyes, clearly pleased with their current positions.

“Either he’s on our side, or he’s a double agent,” Will says, dragging his fingertips down Hannibal’s chest. He rests his head on the side, looking at their shared reflection in the mirror. He pulls out to admire the sight of Hannibal taking him inside without restraint, and the gesture is lewd enough to make his stiff cock twitch.

“Whichever he may be, he’s extended an invitation for us to join him this coming month.”

“You’re far too coherent for someone who’s just gotten fucked.”

Hannibal laughs quietly, and smiles against his forearm. He opens his eyes to look at Will through the mirror. “You didn’t wear me out enough.”

Will mouths at his throat, jerkily pushing against the pliant body. “Next time I won’t let you come until you beg. Even then, I’ll consider it.”

“I look forward to it,” Hannibal says, gasping when Will finally begins moving in earnest once again.

In a myriad of grunts and heated words spoken in delirium, Will slams in once more and stills, soft tremors coursing through him as he comes. The relief that follows is bone-deep, satisfying to the verge ecstasy.

Hannibal gives him no time to steady himself, pushing Will away before turning onto his back and pulling him down to lay by his side. Sweat and saliva dry on their skin, but Will savors the discomfort. He leans up to kiss Hannibal, soft pecks along the corner of his mouth, before deciding that the chasm of celibacy and detachment has been crossed.

They kiss long and deep, wallowing in the sense of belonging and understanding. For the first time in a long while, Will feels the safety and comfort of home.


	12. The Dance

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Will doesn’t want to uproot his feet, not yet, but they have reached the end.

Bedelia Du Maurier moves with an air of regal mystery not unlike Hannibal’s own. She holds a splendor that is only rivaled by the gold of her hair and the rich azure of her eyes; the soft wrinkles on her face do nothing to lessen her distinctly feminine beauty.

Curiosity and wonder captivate Will as they move across the marble floors of the Palazzo di Firenze, underneath the glimmering lights cast from glass chandeliers. Gold and silver glitter scatter along their feet, heralding the presence of a dozen other pairs that crowd the floor.

They dance to the sound of a whimsical waltz. A cello sings its low song, and a violin kisses the melody with sweet swaying notes. The muted chatter of people causes ripples of static in the atmosphere, making the ballroom far more claustrophobic than it truly is.

Will focuses his attention on the woman currently in his arms as they turn in time, keeping step with the careful choreography of the room. He keeps his smile professional but genuine, and his efforts are rewarded with a smile that is demure and secretive. Someone capable of keeping up with Hannibal is someone worthy of intrigue, and Will is definitely intrigued.

Out the corner of his eye, Will spots a pair that inspires no sort of joy.

Hannibal, too, has taken to the dance floor, and his movements are as elegant as every other aspect regarding him. He waltzes with the ease and grace of someone who has been dancing for decades, and Will finds himself unspeakably unworthy.

With a hand clasped on Hannibal’s bicep, Antony Dimmond sways with a grin bright enough to rival the chandeliers. The two of them are more focused in conversation than actual dancing, but they do perfectly well in not breaking stride.

“He speaks very highly of you, Mr. Graham,” Bedelia says, bringing his attention back. He turns them again. “Not many people are capable of capturing and keeping Hannibal’s attention.”

“I suspect that isn’t exactly a good thing.” Will throws himself into the dance with renewed vigor, trying to ignore the nagging distraction a few feet away. “He’s as elusive as when we first met.”

“Is he?” Her question dares him to lie to her again. “Perhaps, not as elusive as you thought he would be. He has allowed you to know him.”

“Only what he wants me to know.”

Bedelia bows her head in agreement. “Hannibal, however sure you might be that he is not, will always be in complete control.”

“He’s good at making you believe he isn’t.”

“Quite.” Her diamond earring briefly catches the light, casting the illusion of mischievous fae dancing on her shoulder. “However, he does have one weakness. And that is, he is unpredictable.”

“How is that a weakness?”

“He may eventually become reckless, or blinded in the throes of self-congratulation. Or, he may become consumed by a banality he thought himself above. Blindsided and left vulnerable by his own righteous belief.”

Will feels the need to push up his glasses only to realize that he hasn’t worn them in months. The thought floors him, leaving him feeling naked and exposed under Bedelia’s scrutinizing gaze.

The makeshift smile falls from his face, but she only squeezes his fingers, causing the fabric of her draping sleeve to smoothly ripple across his hand.

“Jack Crawford has not given up his search,” she says, directing the conversation towards safer grounds. “He was spotted in Paris two weeks ago.”

“How much does the Agency know?”

“More than enough. Not all of it true. However, truths and lies mean little to a bloodhound with a scent. It won’t be long until he comes to prowl Italian soil.”

“Would it really be wise to cross Hannibal?” Will finds himself asking, the dark lilt of his words dissipating into the song. 

Regal elegance and sophistication aside, she has referred to Hannibal as her client once before, and the knowledge of an underground web of cons isn’t new to Will. Information has been her particular brand of currency from the start.

Bedelia’s surprise is carefully kept hidden, but the momentary widening of her eyes gives away her unease. “To tell the Agency your whereabouts will equate to suicide. I’ve… _extracted_ myself from their books.”

Will brings them in for one last spin as the waltz come to an end, kissing Bedelia’s hand with a polite bow. Hand in hand, they walk into the crowd of spectators who appraise them with detached yet interested looks.

Their conversation turns towards bland topics such as politics and social gossip, the area around them polluted with too many perked ears to touch on more delicate matters. They’re offered champagne as they walk around the room with a respectful space between them, pretending to enjoy each others’ company.

Across the room, Antony leans in to whisper conspiratorially into Hannibal’s ear. He’s dressed in a traditional tuxedo, the bow tie looking out of place in the absence of his trademark scarf. Plenty subdued in contrast to their last shared dinner, Antony almost passes as a proper pillar of society rather than a penniless poet.

Will isn’t surprised, nor is he bothered, by the fact that the voice in his head is starting to sound a lot like Hannibal’s.

“I’m curious,” Bedelia says, leading them out into one of the balconies. A fat moon hangs overhead, casting its silver glow over the darkened streets below. “About your relationship with him.”

“We’re friends.”

“He doesn’t have a lot of those.”

“Not hard to imagine why.”

Bedelia smiles wryly and leans against the railing, her dress glimmering along with the stars above. “Your gestures echo his own. You’ve fashioned an armor in the shape of his person suit.”

Will laughs without an ounce of humor. “I had to,” and it’s only half a lie. He turns around to rest the side of his hip against the railing and angles his chin towards the party inside. “Otherwise I wouldn’t know how to survive in this type of environment. Back home, the closest I got to a social outing was a beer on my porch with my dogs.”

There’s a moment of silence before she speaks again. “It is easier for you to mimic a killer than to rely on the creations of your own mind.” Bedelia faces him then, managing to pin him with a stare alone. “Whatever did you do, Mr. Graham, that you would rather be the Chesapeake Ripper than yourself?”

He considers the question, taking no offense in her scrutiny. Memories too far buried are not brought up, but he is well aware of their existence in the deepest recesses of his mind.

Will doesn’t answer her, debating whether or not what he thinks on the subject is true. He can’t claim that Hannibal brings out the best in him, not yet and not quite, but he can admit that there is a feeling of acceptance and mutual understanding.

No, it is not easier to mimic a killer than a parody of him - it _compliments_ a very real side of Will.

He is allowed to dance with the inkling of darkness he often exploits, no longer having to compartmentalize. Becoming one with every blurred and mutated side of his mind has never been easier, letting each aspect blossom into a creation of stability and _beauty_.

“Will, Ms. Anderson,” says Antony as he joins them out on the balcony carrying two glasses. He drinks them both. “How lovely to see you.”

Will looks from Antony to Hannibal, certain that his face betrays none of the alarm he feels. Hannibal, though pleasantly polite, holds a hint of distaste at the corner of his eyes.

“I hope you don’t mind me calling you Will,” he continues, flashing the three of them a smile. “A name was never added to the title of Mr. Fell and a quick Google search alerted me to the fact that the real one is far older than you.”

Bedelia lifts a fine eyebrow, casting Hannibal a questioning look.

Will fights the urge to bolt right out of the building.

“Oh, come now. No need to be so secretive about it.”

“Some things are better left alone, Mr. Dimmond,” Bedelia says, her low voice almost like a lullaby in the warm night. “I believe these two gentlemen have their reasons to take on aliases. After all, not everyone is forgiving when it comes to their proclivities.” She succeeds in sounding apologetic, touching a hand to Will’s arm.

Antony, perhaps more clever than Will had hoped for, inclines his head in agreement. The farce is palpable, and the questions that are soon to come will be many. Will meets Hannibal’s eyes, and the intention can be read as easily as Antony’s lack of self-preservation.

“Just when I thought the two of you couldn’t get any more interesting,” Antony says, but before he can continues, Hannibal steps up.

“You are more than welcome to our apartment once the evening is through,” he says, sidestepping Antony and extending his hand to Will. “The both of you.”

“I’ll pass.” Bedelia’s knowing smile borders on trepidation, but it goes ignored.

“I certainly won’t pass.” Antony adjusts his cufflinks, but the playful suggestiveness of his stance is gone. It serves to raise Will’s shackles. “How long until we can call it a night, gentlemen?”

“Soon,” Hannibal declares, curling his fingers around Will’s once they’re hand in hand. “First, I’d like the pleasure of dancing with my husband.” His face is a mask of enamored bliss, but Will can sense the tempest brewing beneath it.

“Of course. Wouldn’t want to come between you two.”

“It’s best you don’t even try,” Will says. The harshness of the words please Hannibal, if the lifting of his eyebrows is anything to go by. “Excuse us.”

Antony remains rooted to the spot, Bedelia turning him away and enveloping him in conversation.

Hannibal whisks Will towards the center of the floor, holding his hand like a king would his queen. People part without being prompted, flourishes of color and sparkles paving the way for the two of them with an awe served for royalty.

For once, Will doesn’t feel out of place when Hannibal stands before him and bows respectfully before closing the space between them, placing a hand on Will’s lower back. Will places his over Hannibal’s shoulder, keeping them at an appropriate distance for the dance.

Neither speaks, finding that their shared silence is far louder and meaningful when in the other’s presence.

With their touch it’s easy to predict when to begin, Hannibal tensing to whisk them off into a wide circle across the brightly lit floor. They spin and step in time to the waltz that drifts around them, the crescendo of strings and bras urging to quicken their pace and come closer, letting the world around them fall away.

Will finds himself grinning, disbelieving the uninterrupted flow they’ve found within a sea of gold. He thinks back to the first time they danced so many months ago in that crowded square in Vienna. He thinks about the many nights the two of them spent practicing in their apartment, with Hannibal’s iPod hooked up to the stereo; the failed attempts, the bruised toes, and drunken laughter.

Here, Will doesn’t have to try and remember the steps. Impeccably dressed and in Hannibal’s arms, he glides over the floor like a beggar who has been transformed into a prince. The Florentine night with its bright moon and beautiful people, the feverish delight and barely felt happiness that warms the cockles of Will’s heart has him swooning to more than just the music.

Hannibal looks absolutely thrilled, enjoying every second of their spectacle as he spins them round and round, keeping time and basking in the perfect execution of their dance. He’s alive under Will’s enraptured stare, smiling wide, elated and captivated.

Will wonders just how far gone he truly is to be able to find contentment in the arms of a man who promises only danger and destruction at every turn. It’s difficult to reconcile a cold and calculating monster with the absolutely gorgeous creature that currently has its grip tightly around Will’s heart.

He’s forsaken what little he had of his life and it has brought him here. A new creation born from fire and grief. Evolving his design, Will finds that hiding is a lot less rewarding than he once thought.

Once the song begins slowing to an end on a lulling note, Hannibal spins them once more, dipping Will so low he’s too amazed by the grace with which the move is executed to laugh at the absurdity of it. They both come up with equally brilliant smiles, Hannibal touching their foreheads together in an act of decorum.

Fortunately, Will hasn’t entirely abandoned his tendency to be occasionally impulsive, and steals a quick kiss from Hannibal’s lips.

“The rumors are true,” says a man who approaches them, and Will mourns the loss of intimacy the moment deserved. “You do waltz as well as you lecture, Signor Fell.”

Hannibal’s smile dims to something more appropriate, stepping away from Will when he’s left with no other choice. “I believe neither of us has had the pleasure?”

“Rinaldo Pazzi,” the man says, extending his hand and shaking each of theirs.

“Roman Fell.”

“Christopher Fell,” Will says.

Although dressed in proper attire, a discreet look downward yields that his shoes are worn and nowhere near suitable for an affair such as their current one. He smells of the aftershave Hannibal loathes, and while amusing, it sets Will on edge. 

He recalls hearing the name on the news a matter of weeks ago on a report regarding an armed robbery that left two bank tellers dead.

With Antony Dimmond revealing that he knows more than he should, and the Florentine chief inspector approaching them dressed like he’s ready to chase down dangerous fugitives, suddenly, leaving the building becomes Will’s top priority.

“You are, ah, quite the talk around here. The first non-Italian curator of the Palazzo Vecchio,” he says, the line sounding overly-rehearsed. “A man with such titles would have been more than welcomed to work in his homeland, yes?”

“Christopher and I feared growing stagnant,” Hannibal answers with ease despite the stiffness of his posture. “Florence presented us with a magnificent opportunity, Signor Pazzi. I apologize if our status as a foreigners offends you.”

“No, no, you misunderstand.” Pazzi’s accompanying chuckle is tight. There is a severity to him, an almost hawk-like attention that reminds Will of Jack on a good day. “It’s just curious that the studiolo would grant said opportunity.”

“They were adequately impressed with Roman’s knowledge of Dante,” Will says, slipping both hands into his pockets. “The man is difficult to embarrass when he knows most sonnets by memory. It’s quite the feat to behold.”

Hannibal shrugs in an attempt at modesty that fails. “I am sure there were others more worthy than I.”

Will holds his eyes for a moment, hoping the look conveys how unprepared he is to face this. Hannibal, as insufferable as he is, pretends to be confused, much to his dismay. 

Sighing, Will excuses himself. “Would you like a drink, Signor Pazzi?”

“No, thank you,” he says, his attention refusing to sway away from Hannibal.

Nodding to no one in particular, Will turns towards the ostentatious table in search of alcohol. 

His palms are sweaty and he refuses to acknowledge his quickened pulse as he saunters over. He knows with utmost certainty that they can no longer stay here, and he already mourns having to leave behind this fake life that has wrapped him up in a blanket of much needed reprieve.

Their sanctuary had been doomed from the start, but more time could have been bought. Will still feels the scars along his body, the broken fragments inside of him that refuse to heal no matter what he does. He doesn’t want to uproot his feet, not yet, but they have reached the end.

Walking amidst the Florentine elite, Will is left feeling cheated once again. But rather than hopelessness, he feels a cool kind of anger, one he can harvest and hold onto until the situation calls for it.

At the far end of the table, Antony Dimmond and Bedelia Du Maurier are wrapped up in a conversation that seems everything but organic. Bedelia meets Will’s eyes for the briefest second, but it’s enough to convey what needs to be said.

He, Hannibal, and Antony will leave the palazzo tonight, but only two of them will make it out of the country alive.

***

“I don’t know if I should be flattered or horrified,” Will says, scrolling down the article and stopping to look at the gruesome images on the bottom right corner. “I _am_ impressed, though, at how you managed to pull this off on such a short notice.”

Hannibal leans over his shoulder to look at the computer and hums with disinterest, the same way an artist does when they aren’t particularly proud of their piece. “It was messy.”

“Matters of the heart usually are.” Will observes him out of the corner of his eye, but Hannibal betrays nothing. “Are you going to deny the fact that you left me a valentine?”

“You’re certain it’s for you.”

“Who else?” He leans back on the couch, rubbing his palms against the top of his thighs. “You broke, shattered, and twisted Dimmond into a very uncomfortable position.” Will points to the computer accusingly. “Inspector Pazzi must be devastated at the fact that he let you get away.”

Petulance cast aside, Hannibal runs his fingertips through Will’s hair, softly scratching at his scalp as he leans against the back of the couch. His touch is soft, and just this side of caring. “Our time grows short.”

“And we’re no step closer to destroying InRon, even with Budge dead.”

“Tobias Budge didn’t own InRon Dynamics,” Hannibal says, almost as an afterthought.

Will frowns, turning around to face him. “You failed to mention that.”

“I was busy preparing our means for escape,” he defends. He looks down at Will, unbothered by the annoyance he must be exuding. “Antony fulfilled his purpose during our short entanglement. He was quite adept at finding information and piecing it all together.” Hannibal reaches for him again, this time to playfully tug at Will’s ear. “You have cute ears.”

Ignoring the remark and the heat it sparks along said ears, Will looks back to the computer. “So a poet did a better job at gathering information than the counterintelligence department at Langley.” Hannibal stays quiet, which forces Will to reasses his thinking. “Someone is corrupting the influx of information?”

Hannibal pushes off the couch and walks around it, pausing in the kitchen to look at the timer. He’s yet to remove the apron tied around his waist. “It has become easier to search through public records, yes, which suggests that information is either being censored or erased by someone within Langley or someone with enough clearance to get through security.”

“Whoever’s doing it might be the same person who planted the so called evidence against us,” Will says. He runs a hand over his face and laughs. “I’m not sure how I feel about this. To think the Agency would have gotten a whiff that something might be off. With did Dimmond find?”

Picking up his phone from the counter, Hannibal fiddles with it before putting it back down. Will’s own begins vibrating in his pocket.

The attached file has a list of shareholders, InRon’s emblem stamped onto the corner of the document. He reads through them, and it isn’t long before a surname catches his attention. “Verger?”

“The late Edmond Verger founded the company. He specialized in the development of prosthetics.”

Will runs the name through a search engine, and true enough the photos the search yields are that of a man with a striking resemblance to Mason Verger, right down to the slightly manic stare. Another search, this time with Mason’s and Margot’s names, gives him nothing.

“They were wiped from the internet,” he says, trying other variations that might grant him something useful. “Nothing.”

“Are you familiar with TattleCrime?”

Will grimaces at the mention. “Unfortunately. Freddie Lounds was stupid enough to sneak into the Ripper’s crime scenes.” He stops talking, looking up to find Hannibal giving him a smug look. “Of course you followed your own investigation.” He loathes that it is so easy to forget Hannibal’s true nature.

“Several years ago, she wrote a story on the Verger family. The article was removed less than twenty four hours later.”

“Not a common practice for Lounds.”

“The scandal had placed a repulsive mark on the family name, forcing sponsors to withdraw out of fear of damaging their own reputations. Verger used his company to erase all trace of his children, as well as the damage Mason had caused.”

Will wants to ask but refrains from doing so. Although it may have never been explicitly said, he can deduce what kind of atrocities Mason is guilty of. He recalls Margot’s terrified eyes with horrible clarity.

“Papa Verger dies, his kids inherit the company, but since they technically don’t exist, Tobias Budge is signed up as the face character.” Will watches Hannibal open the fridge and produce a silver bowl. He pulls out a sheet of chocolate as well. “ _Mason_ inherited the company,” he says, mostly to himself. “No room for incorrect daughters and their improper inclinations.”

Hannibal serves them ice cream. Vanilla bean with chocolate shavings and a raspberry on top. Out of all desserts he’s prepared, it’s the simplest one and Will is grateful for it. The sweltering heat of August doesn’t exactly call for anything fresh out of the oven.

“Margot was reaching out to you.” He sits beside Will and drapes one leg over the other, bowl held daintily in hand. “Either to cover her involvement or to protect you.”

“She has no need to protect me. There’s nothing to gain from it.” Popping a spoonful in his mouth, Will shuts his eyes and lets the flavor melt over his tongue. Delicious, just like everything else Hannibal creates. “If anything, I’m her way out.”

“Then we have a heading,” Hannibal says, casting a brief look around their apartment. It’s smaller than the one they shared in Florence, but just as pretentious. Were it up to Will, they would have gone to a cottage somewhere outside of Munich, where the grass is still green and the cars are sparse.

“They won’t be at InRon’s HQ.” He uses the spoon to move the ice cream around, waiting for it to melt some. “Too obvious.”

“Where do you suggest?”

“I don’t know yet.” Will focuses on the computer again although the screensaver has activated, making clear bubbles bounce across the screen. “The Italian police got close which means the Agency will be alerted. You weren’t exactly discreet, either. God knows what Antony told them.”

“Interpol would have raised security levels by now. It will be difficult to travel from this point on.”

“We keep an eye on the news,” Will decides. “We know what InRon is up to. If they decide to run some kind of trial, it’s bound to make the press.”

Hannibal hums his agreement and continues to eat his ice cream. He’s waiting for something, and Will knows that the conversation is well overdue. They can’t hide from each other anymore, not while wearing disguises and putting on the performance of a happy couple.

Will waits it out, slowly making his way through his dessert and watching the clock tick away above the stove. It’s been months. They’ve known each other for almost a year, but Will feels like he’s known Hannibal far longer than that. Time passes strangely for him. Nightmares aid in warping his perception of time and space.

Hannibal has killed a mutual acquaintance. It had been premeditated on both their ends, Will going as far as saying that Antony knew too much to be allowed to walk out of their apartment again. Though Will had stayed put, turning in for the night while Hannibal showed Antony out, he knew perfectly well what was about to transpire. He can still hear the heavy thud of a body hitting the floor.

The image of Hannibal’s presentation is burned into his retinas, as beautiful as it was gruesome. Will remains awed at his level of skill, of how he had been able to fold a human body into the shape of an anatomically correct heart. Mounted upon swords and placed within a church that is both vast and timeless, it’s as genuine a declaration of love as it can possibly be.

Will wonders why Hannibal has fixated on him from the start when there’s no shortage of damaged individuals capable of empathizing with other broken people. The fact that his brand of crazy is just enough to keep Hannibal engaged both floors and elates him. He’s trapped, but it isn’t like Will wants to run. He should want to get away, but he doesn’t. He continues to flirt with the boundary between danger and comfort.

“Why me?” he asks, staring at Hannibal who continues to nurse his ice cream. “What have I done to earn your love?”

Hannibal stalls, debating his answer. He licks his lips, and his hesitation would be endearing under different circumstances. “You cannot control with respect to whom you fall in love,” he says. He thoughtlessly strokes the side of the bowl, staring blankly at the carpet underneath the table. “It’s troublesome to face a reality one cannot alter.”

“The reality that you’re just a man, you mean. As human as the rest of us.”

“It has been a long time since I’ve thought myself as human.”

Will can relate on an odd level. “You aren’t a monster, and neither are you a god. If that’s what you fancied yourself to be. You aren’t superior, and neither am I.”

“Do not forget what I am.”

“You’re a predator,” Will says, plain and simple. “You kill indiscriminately, eat the meat because that’s all they are to you. Even me.” Hannibal looks at him then, curiously. “I’m yours to kill whenever you grow bored or whenever I become too much of a threat. Would you eat me?”

“Would you like me to?”

“You can’t answer a question with another question, Hannibal. That’s rude.”

Hannibal smiles. “I would eat your heart.”

Will’s pulse doesn’t race, and neither does he begin to sweat. The confession grants him a quiet sense of peace. “Good,” he says, finishing his ice cream before it completely melts. “Always with the symbolism.”

“And also your brain,” he adds, almost jokingly. “Since I have admitted to it being the aspect that first caught my attention.”

“What does brain taste like?”

“Earthy, for lack of a better word.” Hannibal takes the raspberry between his fingers and holds it up to Will’s lips. “The meat is almost cream-like, soft on the palette and delightful on the senses.”

Will takes the berry into his mouth, pressing a kiss to Hannibal’s fingertips. “Would you cook it?”

Hannibal thinks about his answer as Will takes their bowls and places them on the table. When he returns, he wraps a hand around the back of Hannibal’s neck and straddles his lap, grinding against him. A kiss is pressed to Hannibal’s jaw, the light stubble there causing delicious friction against Will’s lips.

“No,” he finally answers, gripping Will’s hips and pulling him flush against his body. “Your smell has a distinctive spice to it that alerts me of exquisite flavor,” Hannibal murmurs against his mouth, ghosting almost-kisses to it. “I would be against adding any sort of seasoning.”

Not for the first time, Will marvels at how far down he’s gone when the thought of being cannibalized excites him.

“I wonder what you taste like,” he says, pressing his nose to Hannibal’s throat. “My palette isn’t as refined as yours.”

“Perhaps you may taste something other than my meat.”

“Are you suggesting I blow you?” At Hannibal’s soft exhale, Will is certain the man is taking the chance to fantasize about Will wrapping his lips around his cock. “Do you want me to?”

“Stay here,” Hannibal says, embracing Will and canting his lips to seek pressure where he wants it most. “Will.”

“I’ve already told you. Where else would I go?” Will kisses him strong and wanton, a sharp difference to the slow grinding of his hips.

Neither stops, sinking further into a give and take of tongues and the light scrape of teeth. Will touches to his heart’s content, brushing hair and exploring the broad expanse of Hannibal’s clothed chest. His shirt is a light blue, and the shade is lovely against the bronze of his skin.

Their lower bodies continue to work in the form of soft ondulations until they’re both hard, and even then, Hannibal doesn’t let up. He pins Will closer, pushing up until he’s gasping with pleasure.

“Can we…?”

“Just like this,” Hannibal says, the words hitching as he sucks Will’s bottom lip into his mouth.

“Our pants.”

“I’ll throw them in the wash.”

Will grins when his lip is released, thoroughly enjoying Hannibal’s abandon. “Humping like teenagers. You almost look desperate.” Maybe to drive the point home, Hannibal grabs Will’s ass and squeezes. “Oh. Shit.” Grabbing the back of the couch, he pushes them closer.

Hannibal paws at his back and mouths at whatever he can reach, sucking kisses onto skin and fabric alike. He bounces Will on his lap in a hurry and incredulous laughs drown out into needy moans and broken sighs.

“You still haven’t fucked me,” Will whispers into Hannibal’s ear, enthusiastically rutting against his groin. “God, I want you to. I want you to stuff me with your cock, Hannibal. Your tongue, fingers, anything. _Fuck_.”

Will gasps when the world shifts around him and then he’s on his back, Hannibal grabbing the back of one knee and pushing it up. The position excites Will further, granting him the illusion of Hannibal taking him despite every item of clothing still being on. He lets his head fall back, rocking up to meet Hannibal’s thrusts when his fingers tingle with pleasure.

“This is good, I like this,” he says airily, clawing at the cushions beneath him. 

Hannibal’s eyes are on him, unblinking, but the words that fall from his mouth are foreign. They slur together into something difficult but musical, and the urgency behind them thrills him.

Taking his hand from where it rests behind his knee, Will redirects it to his throat.

Hannibal blinks, shaken out of his fervent stupor with an unspoken question.

“Just enough to feel it,” Will says, the heat on his skin unrelated to his embarrassment. “Please.”

Long fingers press gently to the column of Will’s neck, tightening only when the hand around his wrist requests it of him. “Beautiful,” is all Hannibal can say.

It doesn’t take much longer until their pace grows erratic, breathing ragged, sweat clinging to their skin. Hannibal, however involuntarily, squeezes Will’s throat in a moment of blind heat, but Will can only quiver with reckless pleasure once he’s released.

A kiss and a soft growl pulls Will up from the haze and Hannibal is there, unkempt and teetering over the edge. “My darling baby boy.”

Will’s eyes widen at the endearment, and the rough shoves of Hannibal’s hips against his, the tightening of the hand around his neck. He comes choking on a whimper, riding the electrifying jolts that make him tremble under Hannibal’s weight.

Hannibal’s own release is a tad bit louder than his, and Will grins lazily at that. Next time, he’ll make sure to milk every little sound out of him until his throat gives out.

“Baby boy?” Will asks, fisting the hair at the base of Hannibal’s neck once he’s collapsed on top of him. “I feel like I should you call _daddy_ after that.”

“I certainly wouldn’t mind.”

“That was a joke,” he bites out before Hannibal can get used to the idea.

“Of course, my love.”

Will gazes up at the ceiling, struggling to gather both his thoughts and breath. “A post-coitol sap?”

“Hm. Might I remind you of the things you were saying two minutes ago?”

“Nothing like _that._ ” Hannibal lifts his head to fix Will with a look that guarantees him that he has no idea what half of the things he said are. The realization stand up the hairs along his arms. “Christ, what the fuck did I even say?”

“Things that I will remind you of when you’re being particularly stubborn.”

Will closes his eyes and laughs despite the worry that wedges itself in his chest. “We should shower,” he says in an attempt to change the subject. “It’s hot, we’re soaked in sweat, and dry semen isn’t a very nice feeling.”

Kissing his jaw, Hannibal moves off of him.

He takes their bowls into the kitchen while Will unsteadily walks into their bedroom in search of clean clothing, and ends up announcing that he’ll take both his and Hannibal’s wardrobe into the bathroom.

A lie of course, because Will has no intention of either of them getting dressed.


	13. The Countdown

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Time, once unreliable, has now ceased to exist.

Freedom comes with the acceptance of how insignificant one’s life is within the entropy of the cosmos. The understanding that life will go on regardless how bad one missteps is a balm for the weariest of souls and minds. Akin to a spiritual experience, to know that past the layers of our atmosphere rests a system so minuscule in comparison to the entirety of the universe, a breath of air revives lungs that have grown tired.

Within a galaxy are a million suns; suns that live and die, collapsing under their own weight to become black holes. Within a black hole is a Singularity: a point of infinite density where all the laws of physics break down. Within the known universe there are more galaxies than grains of sand on the beaches of Earth.

Man whispers of theories, of possibilities and impossibilities, of truths stranger than fiction where other worlds grow and breed like biological beings. For every choice made a new universe branches out. Some collapse, some thrive. Some tell of better stories, fantastical ones that will set the heart alight. Others, much like the reality Will Graham has been destined to experience, leave something to be desired.

His physics professor had once told his class that in another universe they lead the lives they each desired. _Everything that has to happen will happen,_ she had said, _but this is the play you have been cast in to perform._

The performance doesn’t matter when he is just an atom within a living, breathing system. His destruction would merely cause a wave on its own.

Here, however, in a world where reality shifts and bends into waves of waking nightmares, Will is unsure of what any of it means. Whether artist or scientist, hunter or prey, the question remains: what is real and what is not?

Time, once unreliable, has now ceased to exist.

“Will?”

Hannibal’s gentle urging makes him turn away from the tree in the darkened forest and face the sweeping expanse of their quiet cabin.

The sensation of his heart falling into his stomach is an unpleasant one, causing ripples of nausea to grip at his esophagus. All of the air on the planet seems to have scattered elsewhere, eluding his body and starving it of oxygen.

The chill is unheard of this late in August. His skin crawls as vertigo shakes his foundations, sweat spreading in an uneven sheen along his forehead and underarms.

Panic isn’t new to him. Will has learned how to curb his attacks by stepping away and focusing on his breathing, on counting up to ten and right back to zero. A mantra of his name, time, and place often helps, but not now, not today.

“I was…” he stops, tries again. “We were -” Will spins around, squeezing his eyes shut tight before venturing into opening them again. The scene doesn’t change. “Hann?” The name cuts off when his throat fails to continue, focusing his alertness instead of keeping his knees from buckling.

Hannibal closes the space between them but doesn’t touch him, aware of the edge of hysteria Will is dancing with. His presence is grounding, but it isn’t enough to calm him.

It takes Will a second to realize that his own mouth is working around a whisper, a constant stream of “I can’t remember” that seizes up his muscles and finally causes him to go down. Hannibal breaks his fall, propping his back up against the wall.

Forehead to forehead Hannibal declares, “You have a fever.”

“I can’t remember.”

“What can’t you remember?”

Will turns his face away, wanting to put distance between them. He pushes against the barrier in his mind, clawing with his fingers through cold mud. All he finds is a sheer wall with no hope to climb.

“Will, stay with me. What can’t you remember?”

“My name is Will Graham,” he coughs around a fit of short, tight breaths. “I’m… I’m in… Geneva. I don’t know the time.”

“What is the last thing you recall, Will? Will.”

“The forest. We were at the forest.”

Hannibal presses a hand to his chest and pushes him back to get him to sit straight. Will leans his head against the wall, his own hands scrambling over the fabric of his jeans.

“We were just there,” he whispers urgently. “We were there, I was just _there_ and then I was _here_ I… Hannibal. Oh, God.”

“You lost time,” Hannibal says, voice calm and steady. An anchor.

“Why?” The single word is sharp and just this side of manic. “Why the hell would that happen? Why would I lose time?”

Checking his pulse while Will struggles to calm down, Hannibal keeps poised. “Can you get up? Come to the bathroom?”

Will wants to ask why, why would Hannibal want to move him, why should he even be awake when all is this hopelessly, but he soon understands the moment he hunches over the toilet. He empties the contents of his stomach, bile coming up sickly brown until he has nothing left in him.

Time blurs again, but this time he is vaguely aware of Hannibal undressing him and slipping him into a tub of water hot enough to turn his skin pink. He leans back against the porcelain curve, the quakes wracking his body finally calming until they vanish altogether. The bathroom feels bigger than it really is, the pale orange of its walls worsening his migraine, but the gentle lap of water helps keep him afloat.

Kneeling next to him, outer layers of his suit discarded and shirt sleeves rolled up to his elbows, Hannibal scoops up small amounts of water to trickle over the skin that is still dry. There’s an underlying smell of vanilla and lilies, soft enough to miss, but the pleasant scent aids in getting him to unwind.

A small towel soon joins them, and Hannibal takes his time washing Will, peeling away the sweat and bile that still clung to his body. He washes his hair, fingers working a steady tempo over his scalp, until Will is relaxed enough to sleep. He thinks he does because when he blinks for a long second, Hannibal is picking away at his nails.

“Is that mud?” Will says, flexing the fingers Hannibal isn’t holding still.

A metal file chips away at the brownish crust under his nails, making it fall onto the towel at Hannibal’s feet. “Some of it is.”

“Did we do it?” Will does remember what they set off to do, even if he doesn’t remember most of the night. “Did she know?”

“Yes,” Hannibal says, albeit stiffly. “It would seem that your mind found the events to be traumatic and it is trying to protect itself.”

Will scoffs. “I’ve dealt with worse, Hannibal. This is probably some side-effect of the experiment.”

“You hadn’t experienced it until now.”

Staring at the tip of his toes that break the water’s surface, he asks, “Couldn’t you tell?”

Setting the nail file down, Hannibal dips the hand he’s holding in the water. He’s definitely giving Will a manicure. “You were acting perfectly normal, if only slightly distant. I figured you were upset about last night.”

Will reasons with Hannibal’s speculations, trying to find anything that might trigger last night’s events back into his memory. He ought to feel shame, or at least regret, at what they had planned, together, while sitting in a train cabin.

Through Bedelia’s excellent connections they had traced an informant back to Switzerland, where most operatives seem to keep originating from or have connections to. Will and the informant had established a line of communication, the woman siphoning information they had promised to pay her for. The untraceable calls had continued for a week until she demanded payment, and payment they delivered.

The national forest had been a five hour drive from their rented cottage, a rendezvous point both agreed to. In the backseat of the nondescript car Hannibal drove was a silver case. Empty, considering the woman would never get her hands on it.

The deal was simple: the money in exchange for the location of InRon’s legitimate headquarters.

The night had been too warm for the woman to be wearing a long coat, too late to be wearing sunglasses. Hannibal had done most of the talking, the French coming off his tongue with ease as he placed the case in the middle of the clearing and backing away, hands above his head to prove he wasn’t armed.

He really wasn’t, but she never thought of checking the treeline at her back.

Will remembers moving in behind her, syringe ready, telling himself that they were too far in the wilderness for anyone to hear her scream.

Then, he’s here.

“The location?”

“Meyrin,” Hannibal says. “Your so called hunch was right.”

Will waits for him to continue, but the tightness around his eyes speaks volumes. “What is it?”

“InRon shares its location with other organizations, Project Ascension having been a secret and joint development with the organisation européenne pour la recherche nucléaire.”

Frowning at him, Will offers his other hand to be tended to. The water around him sloshes, lowering when he sits upright to lean against the rim. “You’re joking.”

Before continuing the manicure, Hannibal takes advantage of the position and washes Will’s back. The previous arrangement hadn't allowed him to. Will let’s him. He rather enjoys the attention. “I am not.”

“CERN. You’re telling me that InRon Dynamics, while using CERN’s technology, is creating, what, cybernetic zombies?”

Rinsing him off, Hannibal lifts a shoulder to shrug. “You were right about the zombies all along.”

“This is crazy.”

“We’ve been through this.”

“Yes, but a single person briefly becoming one with the internet is one thing. We still don’t know how InRon is going to take this plan to the field, or how many people will be affected by it. And an army of two can’t exactly break through the security of the world’s leading scientific compound.”

“It will be difficult, yes, but you’re a spy, Will Graham. One of America’s finest, I was guaranteed,” Hannibal says with a small smile. “If we work together, I have no doubt of our success.”

“You have plenty of doubts,” Will mumbles, flexing his wrist before Hannibal moves onto the next nail. “We make a good team, though.”

Hannibal doesn’t stop what he’s doing, but he nods his head. “And I am quite pleased.”

“The serial killer and the spy. Sounds like a bad airport paperback.”

“That would depend on how the author develops it,” he says. “How are you feeling?”

“Tired, mostly. Like I have a fever.”

“Then I will prepare something light for us to eat.”

***

Days drift by in a surreal haze, twisting and blurring together in the shape of a dream that isn’t quite a terror, but isn’t comfortable either. Like having cotton balls shoved inside his head, Will roams through the cottage in search of the missing piece of that night’s assault. The more it eludes him the sicker he feels, both physically and mentally.

Hannibal has taken to preparing chicken soup, certain that Will has come down with a bug. Otherwise, he keeps their meals light and high on protein, rich with vegetables and other things that will keep his strength up. He also bustles about the place, cleaning, mostly, which makes Will smile despite himself. The entire situation is severely domestic.

The windows and doors are left open, the house close enough to the forest to buy them as much privacy as they need. The hot temperature forces them to dress down during the day, Will taking to wearing only his pajama bottoms to lounge around. Hannibal still dons his dress pants and buttons downs, but forsakes his waist coats and jackets.

Mostly, they wait. Day in and day out, the international news channel is on and muted, talking politics and economy and terrorism.

The third day brought a report on the murdered woman, but no footage of the body was aired. Hannibal had been kind enough to describe the scene as they left it in vivid detail, from the noose around her neck to the brain removed and placed within her unhinged mouth. He spoke of the way Will’s hands didn’t shake while taking a saw to her cranium, careful to not cause unnecessary damage. Recounting the events stirs Hannibal’s arousal, and Will takes him into his mouth without question.

They fuck more times than Will can count. The burning desperation dissipates with each frenzied orgasm but it gives way to another approach, a softer and more satisfying one. Taking it slow, with sure but patient touches, and the series of laughter that often takes them by surprise, Will grows addicted to the high Hannibal offers him.

The kitchen table, the couch, the deck - Will looks to every surface and feels his skin warm with scandalizing imageries. Hannibal fucks like a god and the mere thought stiffens his cock with little provocation.

Eventually, Will lays on his back and lets Hannibal take him. They go slow, burning with a heat that is unlike anything that has touched Will’s skin. It’s bliss, plain and simple, and headier than any other sensation he’s felt in years. However, he discovers that he much prefers being on all fours on the comfort of their bed. With Hannibal behind him, hands on his hips and plowing into his ass, Will knows that he would be perfectly okay doing nothing else for the rest of his days.

“Will.”

“Hm?”

“Where are you?”

Will blinks and musters a lazy smile, bringing up his legs to sit on them on the couch. Tonight is cooler, so he has a blanket draped over his shoulders while nursing a mug of hot chocolate. “I’m here,” he says, watching as Hannibal locks up the doors and windows. “Thinking about the absolute debauchery we keep practicing.”

“A little excitement goes a long way.”

“Yeah, and this wasn’t exactly what I had in mind when you suggested I sweat out the fever.”

It’s Hannibal’s turn to smile, almost wide enough to show teeth. “My methods have been considered unorthodox on more than one occasion.”

Will agrees, especially when he recalls the one time Hannibal tried inserting inanimate objects found around the cottage, just to gauge Will’s reaction. To his shame, Will had enjoyed the dirtiness of it far too much. “Were you this adventurous with Alana?” That, too, hosts its own level of shame, but it isn’t the kind he can get off on.

Hannibal comes to sit by his side, limbs loose and inviting as he nudges Will to lean against him. “A terribly rude question to ask.”

Will takes a sip of his chocolate, unbothered. He knows they can never go back to the life they had in the States, that this here is all they have, but he can’t stop himself from wanting to make things okay. He wants to see his dogs, hear Beverly giving him crap for surviving on nothing but coffee. Will also wonders about what Hannibal left behind.

“Let me rephrase that, then. Any other partner as adventurous?” Will turns his head to the side, inhaling the soft scent of star anise that still lingers on Hannibal’s hands.

“I sense more curiosity than jealousy.”

“I _am_ curious,” Will says. “I like the thought of you being with women, for some reason.”

“Not men?”

“No.” He licks his lips. “The only dick I want you near is mine.”

Hannibal kisses Will’s earlobe and pinches it between his teeth. He sucks on it, only for a moment, before letting it go. “The connotations of that confession are staggering.”

“I thought I was heterosexual for more than thirty years,” he says around a laugh, shying away from the nibbles that tickle. “All that porn when I was a teenager and all that ever got me going was missionary.”

Hannibal’s fingers caress the blanket over Will’s shoulder, picking at a thread in silent contemplation. “How did you picture yourself the first time I laid you on your back?”

Will grows still, catching onto the line of thought Hannibal is following. “It isn’t like that,” he says, bordering on defensive.

“Did you find yourself fantasizing?”

“About having different body parts? No.” Will takes another drink and puts down the mug when its heat becomes too much on his fingers. “I just like the visual of you between a pair of thighs.”

There are roads Will refuses to tread. Paths he long since buried beneath dirt and debris, footprints erased from the mud, never to be seen or thought of again. Questions of his identity have become cemented in the memory of a humid yet stormy night, lightning illuminating the semi-functional motel sign. He threw his inquiries and doubts into the trash, along with the clothes that had offended his father so.

Will has lived his life within skins that aren’t his own for too long to start poking at subjects better left untouched. Where he stands, unstable or not, he is certain of who he is.

Unable to ignore Hannibal’s silent question, he shakes his head. “I’d rather not talk about this right now,” he says. “I’m having enough trouble with myself already.”

“Of course,” Hannibal says, combing back the curls over Will’s forehead. They linger, checking his temperature. “Whenever you are ready to talk, trust to find me right here, willing to listen to anything you wish to say.”

Will mumbles his gratitude, keeping unseeing eyes on the muted television set. He vaguely makes sense of Harrison Ford in a sea of Nazi uniforms, reminding him that he never wanted to be James Bond, but he would have been okay as Indiana Jones.

He falls asleep like this, wrapped up on the couch with nothing but a soft blanket and Hannibal’s touch on his bare skin, fingers molded to his ribs like an unintentional anchor. He dreams of wide open spaces, wind whipping his hair, and the smell of the ocean before it runs red with blood. A younger Abigail tells him he’s fine, but Garrett Jacob Hobbs tells him he isn’t. Of course he isn’t. He will never be.

***

“Don’t worry about your pace, Will, just keep your hand steady for a clean cut. Speed will come with time and practice.”

“I thought I was a lot better at this. Apparently, I’m not.”

Hannibal makes an amused sound beside his ear, breathe tickling sensitive skin. “I may be being overly fastidious, I’m afraid.” He brings his arms around Will, silently asking him to put the knife down on the chopping board. “Your skin turns the most attractive shade of pink when you become frustrated.”

Will looks down at the onions he set out to chop for tonight’s dinner, the neat squares looking worthy of a culinary show, but not by Hannibal’s standards. His hands shake too much, and he wonders when that became a common occurrence for him. “You’re mean.”

“And you’re lovely.”

“Even with a lethally sharp knife in hand?”

“Especially so.”

Turning in Hannibal’s embrace so they’re standing face to face, Will drapes his arms around his hips to bring him closer. The heavy scent of stew wafts through the air, keeping them from getting too handsy or else ruin Hannibal’s strict timing when it comes to a meal. “It’s nice when you’re this honest about mundane things.”

Pressing their foreheads together, Hannibal gives him a smile that is almost sweet. “Sometimes, simpler words are needed to convey vast and incomprehensible emotions, making them important in every potential way. A rose is beautiful within the eloquent lines of poem, but it is also beautiful when walking by one at the market.”

“An all-encompassing definition.”

Warm lips press to the space between Will’s eyes and linger, basking in the simple pleasure of touch. “You ought to rest.”

“I’m fine,” Will says, trying and failing not to let the words bother him. All he’s done is rest. “I feel a little better. The stew will help, too.”

The night terrors have grown worse, and while never mentioning this, he knows Hannibal is aware. Maybe because Will has woken up more than once drenched in cold sweat, forcing him to move to the couch as to not disturb the warm body next to him. On the third night, Hannibal gripped his wrist and told him to stay. Tea was made, the bed sheets were changed, and Will stayed.

Neither do they talk about Will’s recent bout of sleepwalking.

Little by little, the living world slips through the cracks between his fingers. Never fond of losing control, he feels a hanging sense of hopelessness well above his head, like a guillotine ready to take the plunge.

“Maybe I should see a doctor,” Will mumbles, hiding his face in the crook of Hannibal’s neck. “I’m not sure what kind of doctor would be able to deal with science fiction level symptoms, but there has to be someone. A neurologist, maybe.”

Hannibal hums but doesn’t speak, resting a hand over Will’s back and another on the back of his head. He softly tugs at his hair, his lips ghosting along his temple. “I have asked you to not forget what I am, Will.”

He hasn’t forgotten. He can’t. “You’re not poisoning me. You wouldn’t do that to the food.”

“I’ve caused none of your malady, I assure you.”

Will lingers, thoughtful and curious at the slight hesitation in Hannibal’s tone. “InRon’s tech can fuck off,” he says. “I’d rather live with whatever this is.”

“Neither would I subject you to further experimentation of that kind.”

“Of _that_ kind,” Will says without bite. This is - and will always be - the nature of their relationship. As equals, Hannibal will push at Will’s boundaries to see how far he can go before breaking. Unwilling yet conscious manipulation.

Hannibal maneuvers him so that they’re side by side, an arm around Will’s hip, to allow him to stir the stew. “Your illness is treatable,” he says, nonchalant. “And I will be the one who nurtures you back to full health once this is all over.”

He should be surprised, but he isn’t. He’s angry; the hot licks of rage crawling up his rib-cage and constricting his lungs, but he doesn’t lash out. Emotions are easier to control now, but he still feels them with acute sensitivity.

“How long?”

“Pardon?”

“How long have you know?”

Hannibal releases Will, sensing that he doesn’t want to be touched at the moment. He focuses instead on preparing the last details of their meal. “It isn’t a side-effect to the procedure you were exposed to, I’m afraid. Although, that might have served in worsening it.”

“Hannibal.”

“They day I drove us to the airport.”

Will balks before quickly schooling his features into something resembling indifference.

It’s been almost a year since they sat and eat their sandwiches near the terminal, talking about books and other nonsensical things to pass the time. Will would laugh at how he had considered that period of his life to be difficult, looking down at the broken shards of himself and doing nothing to piece them back together. In retrospect, he had been doing marvelous as opposed to the absolute chaos he currently stands in.

“You’re going to start treating me _now_.”

“I don’t have access to the necessary equipment,” Hannibal says, sounding genuinely apologetic. “Until the Agency ceases its manhunt, or we are able to start life anew, I won’t be able to retrieve what I need without risking exposure.”

“Can this kill me?”

Hannibal delays his answer, looking at Will with a masterfully blank expression. “Night and day will have no meaning to you when it does, if left untreated for so long.”

“I’ll be too far gone to make sense of anything, you mean.”

“You sound relieved.”

Will nods but doesn’t speak his darker thoughts aloud. He knows that Hannibal understands his surrender, his acceptance of the end with a relieved sigh and a smile. He wouldn’t put a gun to his head, but he’ll welcome this.

“This won’t kill you,” Hannibal says, and Will is momentarily enraptured by the stiff flexing of his jaw. “I won’t allow it to go that far.”

Their food is served in generic china, a set that came with the cottage. Hannibal baked his own bread and it tastes as delicious as everything else his hands create.

They eat on the small table that divides the kitchen from the living room. Not an ideal arrangement, but neither complains. Will is left to wonder why Hannibal doesn’t downturn his nose in the face of simplicity, welcoming the unfavorable conditions just as well as he welcomes a five star hotel.

He is going to ask when Hannibal abruptly stands up from his seat, nearly startling him. “What is it?” Will watches him cross the room and reach for the remote, raising the volume on the television for the first time in weeks. “Hannibal?”

Turning in his seat to watch, Will is confused as to why the scene would catch his attention. Riots are anything but rare, especially televised, and those involved look fairly young. It’s night, there are fires illuminating the black with a roar that is only eclipsed by the people involved.

Will understands a word here and a word there, but the reporter speaks too fast for him to make much sense out of any of it. Getting up to join Hannibal’s side, he focuses more on the background than what the woman is saying.

The people are equally divided in countenance. Both violent, but while one group savagely swings its bats and throws its bottles, the other simply walks into them, using their hands as weapons. The contrast is sharp, however subtle, but the look of emptiness in some of the people granted air time tips Will off.

“Where is this?” he asks, unable to recognize the background.

“Everywhere,” Hannibal answers, not enigmatically. He gestures towards the ticker at the bottom of the screen, and Will understands the foreign spellings of country names. “Moscow, Bangladesh, Edinburgh, Cairo, Chicago, Brasilia.”

“None here.”

“Not yet.”

“When did this start happening?”

“The first incident was reported eight hours ago,” he says, slipping his hands into his pockets and frowning. “With no sign of riots nearby, it’s best to assume those in charge are watching from the safety of their headquarters.”

Will nods his agreement. “They’re all here.”

“Yes.”

“No more waiting.”

“There is still no indication of how this is being propagated,” Hannibal says, casting Will a side-glance. “Without it, we’d be fighting blind.”

“Then we blow it all up.”

Despite the tension, Hannibal laughs. “Blow up CERN?”

“Not literally,” Will says, mind running wild with possible actions. “We give it a cold bad enough to short circuit the programing.”

“Infect the system with a virus.”

Will nods. “I’m going to need outside help. Maybe contact Beverly, somehow. Explain to her the situation.”

“What of the carriers?” The true question lingers between them. Will had barely survived being disconnected.

A niggling speck of sympathy tries pushing its way past the newer layers of his skin, the ones hardened and thickened by his exposure to the toxic fumes around him.

Will doesn’t fear this slow becoming, where feelings are misplaced and motives shifted to suit his needs. Influence or not, some pillars are left untouched by his transformation. The drive to save and prevent further harm from coming to these innocent lives is strong within him, proving that accepting his nature has done little to alter his already skewed moral compass.

However, there is one fault that does alarm him. “We have to get this done before more people get involved,” he says, tasting the lack of hesitation on his tongue. There is no distress in accepting that some have to die in order to win. “People powerful enough to cause actual damage.”

Hannibal appraises him with a sense of detached awe, marrying two very different sides of Will and understanding that his influence could only ever go so far. The man before his came into on his own.

“Come, let’s finish our dinner. We’ll discuss a plan of action once we’re done.”

Will looks away from the television, feeling dastardly alive with the promise of a foreseeable end. “Let’s.”


	14. The Stand

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Here I am again, at the same crossroads.” Will laughs, bitter and dry. “But you know what the best part of it is? This time around, I’m not alone. And I don’t mean Hannibal. I mean you. I mean Zeller, Price, Prurnell, and Jack. If I fail this mission, it’s on all of us.”

“I need...” Will stops and reconsiders his phrasing. “Help me.” The request is simple enough, spoken to a webcam in one of the nondescript rooms of his and Hannibal’s cottage.

_“You don’t get what it is you’re asking me to do.”_

“If there is anyone out there, anyone, who you can trust to be honest with you, it’s me.”

_“It isn’t you I don’t trust, Will.”_ Beverly heaves a sigh, running a hand down her face to rub the sleep away. _“The magnitude of this, the amount of rules.”_

“I know. I understand perfectly the position I’m putting you in, but if you don’t believe us then interpret the evidence for yourself.”

_“The last time an agent violated protocols, nearly half a sector blacked out. We’re trying. We’re digging deep but the only thing we’ve struck are files that are confidential even for us. Jack doesn’t have the clearance and Prurnell won’t hear any of it. Hannibal Lecter is on the top of the list, and you threw in the towel when you ran with him.”_

“We had no choice.”

_“There’s always a choice.”_

“Beverly, please.”

_“The Agency has footage of the last Ripper killing,”_ she interrupts, almond shaped eyes widening enough to show exactly how serious she’s being. _“Interpol released files stating that he didn’t work alone that night.”_ Shaking her head, she straightens up and looks away from the computer screen. _“That wasn’t Shanghai.”_

“No, this is exactly like Shanghai,” Will says, struggling to keep his calm while grasping how hopeless the situation is turning. “I had a job to do then and I have a job to do now.” 

Without the Agency’s resources and Beverly behind its controls, storming the compound will yield nothing but failure. Time is ticking down, and Will has run out of options.

_“I can’t.”_

“I’m not asking you to work with me,” he tries, taking a page from Hannibal’s methods of persuasion. “What I am offering you is information that may be critical to solving a riddle and putting down what needs to be put down. If there is anything to be gained, by me, it will be irrelevant because the Agency will get what it wants at the end of the day.

“Abigail is dead. I facilitated her father’s torture, sent him in when the file clearly stated that it had to be me. I _swapped_ us because I thought I was smarter. Because I thought I was more important.” He licks his lips, aware of Hannibal lurking by the door. “Sometimes you tell yourself that you did the right thing because it was right by your standards, because that’s what an institution tells you. But not even those lies can get you a good night’s sleep.

“Here I am again, at the same crossroads.” Will laughs, bitter and dry. “But you know what the best part of it is? This time around, I’m not alone. And I don’t mean Hannibal. I mean you. I mean Zeller, Price, Prurnell, _and_ Jack. If I _fail_ this mission, it’s on all of us.”

The sobriety etched along Beverly’s face is everything but new to him, but there’s a severity around its edges that holds a deeper revelation. Neither speaks again, but the silent connection is interrupted by a flurry of voices somewhere behind her.

Her eyes soften in apology, and Will nods his head in understanding when he recognizes Jack’s resounding boom of a voice. Much to his surprise, he doesn’t feel as betrayed as he’d expect to be after voicing the sludge that often slushes around in his chest in what he had thought was confidentiality. Instead, he’s glad he won’t have to repeat himself.

“We’ll be gone by the time you reach the cottage,” Will says, because running is no longer an option. “If you want to find us, we’ll be at CERN. I’ll be there doing my goddamn job. Tell Jack he should tell his techs to do their own. We only have a three hour window.”

Will ends the session and closes the laptop, taking a moment to bury his face in his hands.

Hannibal is still watching him, silent and still as a statue. He’s dressed far too formally for the occasion, but Will didn’t think the man would wear anything less. “No tie?”

“That would be hazardous,” he says, dusting off nonexistent particles from the pristine sleeves of his shirt. “A bow tie would be more adequate, I think. Care to help me?”

“How well can you move in that?”

“Well enough to not get shot during the first volley.”

“No guarantees on the second?”

“None whatsoever.” Hannibal smiles and moves back into their bedroom.

Will lingers for a moment before joining him, walking in just as Hannibal tucks a Baretta into his waistband at the hollow of his back. He takes a strip of fabric from the dresser before standing in front of the mirror, looking at Will through his reflection.

“I thought guns lacked intimacy,” Will says, closing the space between them and turning Hannibal around so he can do his bow tie properly.

Lifting his chin to allow Will the space to work, Hannibal hums his agreement. “They do.” He keeps his eyes on Will until he’s done and moves to fetch the tuxedo jacket from where it hangs in front of the dresser. Hannibal turns around again, letting Will help him into it. “Which is why I assumed you won’t be carrying one. It wouldn’t do for both of us to lack a firearm.”

Will’s chest to Hannibal’s back, he reaches around him to slip the single button into place, and rests his chin over a firm shoulder. Their shared reflection is a comfort, their height nearly the same, but their visage so strikingly different. Two sides of the same coin, almost. Different faces, equal value.

Even in the mirror it’s difficult to see what they are, to reconcile the jarring reality of their lives where they hover high above. Hannibal’s hands over his are simple ones, tanned and soft but firm. Where he stands, he’s just a man, regardless of the horrors that manifest behind his deceptively passive eyes.

But Hannibal can never be _just_ a man. Of this much Will is certain of when he sees the sharp and twisted tines above his head, rising high towards a starlit ceiling. He is a man, but he is also more, and never less.

“Your name is Will Graham,” Hannibal says, and Will exhales softly against his jacket.

“Everything’s a little fuzzy, but I’m still here,” he assures him, giving his torso a light squeeze. “Let’s just get this over with so I can take a vacation.”

“Do you plan on heading out in your pajamas?”

“Why not? That way we can both be inappropriately dressed.”

Hannibal’s smile is fond, borderline adoring. “I have to insist on shoes. Socks would make this a slippery situation.”

A small laugh bursts out of him before he can help himself, and he lets a hand fall down to slap at Hannibal’s hip. “That was terrible.”

“And not entirely a joke.”

Will considers their reflections again, drinking in the sharp cut of Hannibal’s tux and the contrast of black over white. It slims his waist and curves his hips in an alluring display, and Will wishes he’d ravished him once more before he went through the trouble of getting dressed.

“I’m not wearing a tux, but I may have something in mind.”

*

The compound spralls a massive two hundred acres across planes of vibrant grass that are only interrupted by a range of snowcapped mountains on the east end. Trees, fountains, and nicely kept gardens sell a vision of peaceful leisure, more of a park than a compound heavily guarded by military personnel from each corner of the world.

The only unobtrusive way to enter is, ironically, through the main gates, massively wide and manned by officers in civilian clothing.

Will watches them from behind the wheel of their rented Jeep, chin resting over folded hands while running the compound’s schematics through his head once more. 

His objective is to reach InRon’s executive offices with as little damage and trouble as possible, going on the hunch that, as the safest place within the perimeters, it’s where the target will be. The route is simple and straightforward, not too far off from the front gates, but at a comfortable distance from the hadron collider and the energy grid that keeps the place up and running.

He watches Hannibal grow smaller as he walks over the grass and towards the armed guards at the gate, a hand in his pocket and the other around a cigarette he’ll ask them to light, but won’t otherwise smoke. Will’s finger impatiently taps a beat against the steering wheel, glancing for the mobile unit he knows won’t come because this isn’t American soil. If the Agency shows its face, it’s going to be on the Verger’s terms.

Hannibal approaches the first of the men and he’s friendly enough, extending a hand to shake before shaking his head, most likely informing Hannibal that he shouldn’t be here without a permit. Hannibal laughs, nods his accord and presents his cigarette with a shrug. The second of the two men hurries into the booth good naturedly, perhaps in search of a lighter.

Will then begins to worry his bottom lip with his thumb, turning his eyes away only to make certain that Hannibal’s folding knife is on the seat next to him. It is; open, the top of the blade shining a bright red against the autumn sun.

_“Don’t make me regret this,”_ Will had said, the flat end of the knife pressed softly yet menacingly over the freshly shaven skin of Hannibal’s throat. _“We finish this today. No matter what it takes.”_

It had been both a threat and a promise, a finish line crossed on sand. Will doesn’t care who reaches the end first, so long as one of them does. Maybe Hannibal has something left to live for and maybe he doesn’t, but Hannibal robbed Will of a great many things during the short time they have known each other. Now it’s time for him to reap what he so fastidiously sowed. Not exactly a reckoning, but close. If Hannibal wanted to stand on equal footing, that’s exactly where they both will be.

Will looks up just as Hannibal draws his gun, delivering a shot point blank to each forehead. The guards collapse, quietly, and he wastes no time in dragging their bodies into the booth. Once he’s opened the gate, he steps out and locks the door.

Pocketing the knife, Will steps out of the Jeep and jogs the short distance over.

“Fifteen minutes,” Hannibal says, looking down at his watch. “They’ll despatch backup if the guards don’t check in by then.”

“Then let’s not sit around and talk about it.” Will jerks his head towards the main road but stops before taking a step. He’s overcome by a sensation that isn’t new, but one that is strange to experience outside the confines of their temporary home. 

Heaviness settles on the back of his head, almost palpable enough to cause tension along his temples. A twisting in his gut straightens his back as the very tangible feeling of anxiety begins to set it.

“Will?”

“There’s no one here.”

Hannibal spares a brief look around them, the wind whipping his graying hair across his face. “They knew we were coming.”

“Which means Jack and the others should be here.”

“Find the heavier concentration of guards, and we find them.”

“They won’t make it that obvious.” Will breaks into a brisk walk down the wide street, the soles of his shoes making a sound similar to the gait of a stag. He can see black out of the corner of his eye, a massive silhouette with a sleek coat. Angling his head only slightly, all he sees is Hannibal two steps behind.

Will turns his attention forward again, and he’s near to lashing out when Hannibal grips his arm tight enough to bruise. He whips around, confused when everything is too dark, outlines too blurry when Hannibal shoves him up against a wall with a hand covering his mouth.

Like the quieting shocks of an earthquake, Will regains his footing, but his breathing is another beast that refuses to be tamed.

“–not lost. Find your anchor, Will. Deep breaths. I want you to push at my hand, and then breathe in when I push back.”

Will squeezes his eyes shut, trying desperately to get his bearings and bring in his loose ends. He focuses on Hannibal’s loud breathing, letting it bring his ship back to shore despite the fog that hides the jetty. He continues to talk, mostly nonsense, in hopes of tying Will to a post, of grounding him.

It’s nighttime, and the contrast is so discordant and unreal Will wishes he had the opportunity to curl into a ball and not move. He opens his mouth to say so, to say anything, but he freezes when the name he wants to utter is brought up and center, right to the tip of his tongue for no apparent reason.

“Will Graham,” Hannibal is saying, his hands now on his shoulders. “Will.”

“Abigail?” _Claw marks over sheer cliffs, memories he can’t bring any closer to him._ “Hannibal,” he tries again, but thoughts continue to die away, forgotten once he creates them. “Fucking… _Hannibal._ ”

“You’re having an episode.”

Hot and cold, torn by searing flashes behind his eyelids, Will’s legs fold under him. The grass feels wet, soaked, but he knows it isn’t. It can’t be. It’s as fake as the splatters of blood he can see decorating Hannibal’s face like an elegant mask. He shuts his eyes, but Hannibal forces them open.

“What do you see?”

“I know it’s _not real._ ”

“Tell me what you see, Will.”

“How long?”

“Will.”

“Blood. Lots of it.” Will blindly reaches out for his shoulder, desperate for touch, to be grounded, but what he finds stills him for different reasons. “You’re hurt.”

It’s difficult to see in the dim light cast by a poll a few yards away, but Hannibal gives him a dry - if not slightly inconvenienced - smile. “The Agency arrived,” he offers, putting his cold palm over Will’s damp forehead. “Things might have gotten a bit difficult. Also, it’s raining.”

Will’s head lols, suddenly drained of energy. “Talk about a bad time to check out.”

“It wasn’t entirely bad.” Hannibal’s voice is oddly quiet, bordering on strained. He pointedly looks down at Will’s hand.

The folding knife is open, the hilt a shocking glint of gold against the paleness of his knuckles and the blood stains that shine almost black in the poor lighting. Will lifts his hand, trails his sight up to his wrist, sleeve, shoulder, down his chest. “Christ.”

Hannibal is silent during the space of a moment, visibly considering whether or not he should say the following words. It’s a curious expression, one Will savors given the circumstance.

“What’s the last thing you remember?”

“Walking through the front gates. Where are we?”

“Away from immediate danger, but not for long.” Hannibal dabs what appears to be a small damp towel along his face, collecting sweat and, most likely, blood. “We can’t wait, or else they’ll relocate to an underground bunker. The riots have been set off in the nearest city and they’re making their way to the compound.”

Will nods his head, understanding the urgency, and the irony. A serial killer worried about events that might blow up an entire country from the map. Then again, Hannibal is a blatantly atypical psychopath. If he can even be categorized at all. “Shut it down before they reach the LHC.”

“The entrances have been barricaded, but I can distract them long enough to get you into the building.”

“Offer yourself as bait, huh.”

“Do you know why I do what I do, Will?”

“In general, or…?” At Hannibal’s blank stare, Will offers a crooked smile when life begins warming his limbs again. “You don’t see it as murder,” he says, simple. No complex metaphors needed. It’s not difficult to see how Hannibal is. The difficulty lies in understanding and empathizing with him. “Not cannibalism, really. It just… _is_. _I am who I am._ ” 

“Which would put you in a situation where you have the advantage.”

“Difficult idea to grasp.”

“You are driven by passion.” At Will’s incredulous snort, Hannibal touches his cheek. “At this very moment, you are driven by something deeper than revenge. Your veins burn with fervor.”

“You’re wrong.”

“Because you know that Abigail Hobbs is alive and well,” Hannibal says, leveling Will with a soft look. “Somewhere inside that building, she’s waiting for us to come save her. Praying that you won’t fail her again.”

The sensation is similar to that of hovering over a precipice, waiting for the thin layer of wood beneath your feet to give way and plunge you into a void. The air leaves his lungs in a rush. “Liar.”

“You called her name.”

Will goes to retort but his voice fails, the shaking returning for reasons other than fear. But it stops then, as quickly as it came. A blanket drapes over fevered thoughts and words sharpened into weapons. Will calms down, centered and terrified, but unmoving in his resolve.

“She’s leverage.”

“Mason has kept her well enough.”

The thought stirs a fresh wave of hatred, the knowledge that such a vile creature would have breathed the same air as Abigail causing bile to rise up his esophagus. “We have to go.”

Hannibal helps him up, taking the opportunity to asses Will for any serious damage. There are plenty of wounds, apparently, in the form of bruises and scratches, and the graze of a bullet along his left thigh. His lip is split. 

Hannibal looks far less banged up, but he dons his fair share of knicks.

“Is this the west wing or east wing?” Will asks, trying to relocate himself within the compound.

“West, sixth block. The building is a twenty minute walk from here. The pathways are heavily guarded and they are likely to be expecting either of us to show up.”

Will nods his head, taking a step back to stand fully on his own. He can move despite being aware of every ache that asks him not to. He’s done far more with far worse. Knife safely in his pocket, he decides to put his stealth abilities to the test one more time.

“We finish this today.” Hannibal’s words are sharp, pulling Will away from a train of thought he hadn’t been aware of. “No matter what it takes.”

The echo of his own words, surprisingly, inspires tranquility. Distractions are dangerous, and Mason Verger waves his key player like the bait above Will’s head. He will save her. He can’t sit back and let her rot away, be tormented by a pig who lacks any sort of humanity.

Once the deed is done he will have an extremely limited window to get out alive, and the reality that he will have to choose leaves his chest constricting with despair. Save Abigail, or save Hannibal. Either choice will destroy him in the end. 

Will figures that his options never mattered, his decisions regarding which path to take as useless as the struggle to find middle ground within his own mind. Predestination or not, Will always knew that he would end up here. He knew that he would die debating a choice, that hesitation would put him in the ground at the very end of his line.

That he would run face first into a suicide mission in the wake of two people he loved? That’s a novel notion, and he probably owes Beverly fifty bucks for having her call it all those years ago.

“No matter what it takes,” he says, casting Hannibal a quiet smile before walking out the door.


	15. The Siege

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “That’s nothing to worry about,” Will says with a mild shrug. “This way we can all go out together like one big happy family.”

The thunderous roar of thousands of people echoes across the compound, bodies pushing against chain-link fences that threaten to give way at any moment. They scream words that are near unintelligible, gibberish mixed with accusations and arguments irrelevant to the place and time. People driven by mindless rage somehow brought here, to the point of origin, seeking blood and senseless violence.

Time continues to tick down and Will runs in without a heading and half a plan he hopes will work.

Security is dispatched to guard the perimeter, tazing anyone who gets too close to toppling the fence. Vans are placed along the weaker areas, double the firepower as spotlights sweep the frenzied crowd.

Will and Hannibal keep pace a dozen feet apart on opposite sides of the road, dodging lights and soldiers as they go. Hannibal holds a handgun by his thigh, and Will keeps his knife strapped to his wrist. Out in the night, he can see the blood stains on Hannibal’s unkempt tuxedo appearing as black blotches. He’s probably less well-put.

They part ways when the central building comes into view, Hannibal turning to his right to get the guards away from the front entrance. Will watches, chest tight, as he lifts his weapon and opens fire. One shot before he’s walking out of the shadows, hands lifted in surrender and falling to his knees as he’s swarmed by guards, soldiers, and agents alike.

Jack Crawford is among them, barking orders and sneering down at Hannibal who only fixes him with a questioning smile. He says something that sends guards scurrying off to search the nearby buildings, but Will is far away enough to hide if the need be. Unfortunately, not everyone moves away from the doors.

Will walks out in a wide arch, keeping to the areas where buildings cast shadows against the moon and floodlights. He keeps low, hand out and touching what he can to keep him grounded to the here and now. The migraine is enough to be a hindrance, blurring his vision and tightening the knot in his lungs.

There’s a brief scuffle where Hannibal kneels but he’s too far to see. More people move in, more shouting, and the riots grow louder. Gunshots ring out, sharp snaps against the constant ebb and flow of people.

Without breaking stride, Will jumps up along the garden’s ledge, heart pounding a mile a minute when coming into close contact. He’s quick, summoning the tranquility of a dozen persona’s he’s adapted through the years. 

His wrist moves in elegant arcs, a partner that is perfectly synchronized to each shift of his feet over the marble steps outside of the entrance doors. With no time to think, much less delight, Will splits the flesh of one throat before lunging towards the next guard. Hands firm on either side of his head, Will twists, snaps, and lets the body fall to the floor with a mere thump. The last guard runs and he allows it, because he’s already at the door, which he locks from inside.

On the other side of the thick glass he sees Hannibal dragged over by two brutes. Handcuffed and more than a little bloody, he looks alive and well.

Jack, eyes wide but otherwise unruffled, yells at Will words he can’t make any sense of.

A soft beep and the building around him comes to life, sleek furniture shining under blue LED lights that cast an overall glow along the lobby. Modern furnishings gleam, holographic screens swiping across shear walls and expanding, revealing a face Will would very much like the satisfaction of breaking.

“Mr. Graham. Nice of you to finally join us.” Mason Verger comes through with stark clarity, rendering the front doors opaque with the screen. “Disappointing entrance, if I’m being totally honest here. I was counting on you parachuting from a helicopter. You know, in true CIA fashion. At least you got yourself a snazzy suit.”

“Turn yourself in, Mason.”

“What? That’s it? You’re just gonna… tell me to turn myself in and expect me to?” Mason laughs, loud and nasal as he looks to someone off the screen and gestures to it. “Can you believe this guy?”

“The entire area is rigged,” Will says, slipping his hands into his pockets. He discreetly casts a look behind him, but he’s alone as far as he can tell. “Manual trigger will make the entire compound go up like smoke.”

“Bad idea, buddy. Our neighbors just so happen to be running a pretty interesting experiment, I was told some time ago. Can’t be fucked with the specifics, but I think it was something to do with a mini Big Bang. Or would that be a Mini Bang? Anyways. You make this building go boom, Switzerland goes boom, too.”

Will sighs out a laugh, and the satisfaction of seeing Mason hesitate sits warm on his limbs. “Half the world has gone to shit. What’s one more country?”

“I think… I was pretty clear when I let you know about Little Abby playing in the piggy pen earlier.”

“That’s nothing to worry about,” Will says with a mild shrug. “This way we can all go out together like one big happy family.”

“You’re bluffing.”

“Am I, really?”

There must be something written on his face that Mason doesn’t like, urging him to immediately cut the feed as he turns to shout at someone on the other end.

With the screen gone, Will is left standing face to face with the endless black of the night outside. The crowd has dispersed, Hannibal and Jack nowhere to be seen. He turns towards the interior of the building, taking into consideration that they might know of another way in.

Who he sees instead doesn’t at all surprise him.

“Tell me you have some sort of plan and that you didn’t just waltz in here with nothing but a stun gun and empty threats.” Margot stands between him and the rest of the building that opens up into an oval floor reminiscent of a museum, walls lined with gadgets and documents and other miscellaneous.

Impeccable hair and neatly pressed pantsuit aside, she looks armed and poised to retaliate if he to breathe out of time.

“I already told your brother the plan.”

“Then it isn’t a really good one.”

“No, it isn’t.”

“Bluffing. You’re good, but I’m better,” she says, looking down and tapping her watch. “Dr. Lecter will be taken to what Mason likes referring to as the Pen. I’m pretty sure he’ll be lobotomized and jacked up on electrical current in less than an hour. Your daughter, on the other hand, is in my office. Most likely sipping the mocha I ordered for her.”

Will takes a step forward, unsure of what to do beyond that. “She’s okay?”

“If you’re asking if I’ve managed to keep my brother away from her, yes, she’s perfectly fine. For the most part.” Margot’s tone edges on apologetic, betraying more than she wishes to. “She’s been okay since I got to her. I can’t really attest to what happened before I came into the picture, however.”

She turns, thin heels tapping against the polished floors. Will follows but keeps a safe distance. “If he’s done anything to her, Margot.”

“What? Whether you’re warning me or stating facts, I’ll personally write you a thank you card once you’re done with him.”

Will isn’t at all taken aback given what he knows and what he’s read from Margot’s stance. From the first time they met at the lodge, her edges blurred by fear and disgust, to the cold exterior of a woman who has reached the end of her rope.

“InRon is a fading empire,” she says, leading him down a maze of corridors. “All these new big names keep knocking us down the pedestal, making our technologies obsolete. We’re a dying breed, but Mason insists on making Daddy proud to the sad, sad end.”

“How was this distributed?”

“Phones, mostly. Wireless routers scrambling people’s brains, throwing chemicals off balance and setting them off at the tiniest trigger. Unnervingly easy, once you think about it. Kill off the weakest, hit the worldwide pause button, and then drain the previously installed information.” She looks over her shoulder at him. “You’ve experienced what happens next.”

“What’s the use of having humans you can control?” Will quickens his pace to walk side by side, too aware of the hallway that grows tinier and tinier around him, but only within his mind’s eye. “It isn’t sustainable without something to counteract it.”

“Not everyone has the same service provider. With enough puppets under his control, he won’t have to pay another employee. Elections won’t be necessary. Science will develop at breakneck speeds if computers with human hands are the ones behind it, and it will all be credited to InRon Dynamics.”

“Old school world domination,” Will says, unbelieving. “Why do any of this? What’s the whole point of it?” He speaks the question out of pure frustration, but he knows without a doubt the reason why.

“Why would you ever do anything at all, Agent Graham?”

The answer doesn’t require a great deal of philosophy to answer.

_Because why the fuck not?_

They take an elevator up to the fifteenth floor, a cautious eye on Margot the entire way. It doesn’t feel like a trap, the woman fierce in her sincerity of wanting this to end. The private carnage tacked onto the Verger name runs far and deep, leaving more than just emotional scars on her. She will survive him, even if that means going down with their ship.

“Are you alright?”

He nods. “Peachy.”

“You look like you’re about to pass out.”

Will is suddenly aware of the blood that stains his hand and the edge of his sleeve. As warm as the air around him. As wet as the rattling breath in his chest. He is liquid and he is fading, seeping through the cracks.

“Graham?”

“I’m fine,” he repeats, firmer this time. “Where are we going?”

“My office.”

More living quarters than an actual office, the space spans half of the level. Absurdly large and luxurious despite the minimalist design that overtakes the entire building, it isn’t exactly livable. It’s the mirror opposite to Hannibal’s brand of luxury, where dark and earthy tones feel like home. Here, white walls and silver appliances, calls a hospital to mind.

A glass wall grants him a view of the entirety of the compound, as well as the bloodfest that rages on without mercy.

“Help yourself to a drink,” Margot says, walking across the main floor and towards an adjoining room, unbothered by the havoc. “And some aspirins might come in handy.”

He passes on the liquor and goes for a tall glass of water.

Blood runs pink down the kitchenette sink. Will can almost see his reflection on the wall, dark blotches along his cheek and blood on his forehead. A mess through and through; a tired one. Every ache has made itself known, as well as each tremor and churn of his stomach.

Will lets the water run over his hands even after the gore has been washed away.

He misses home. His little homestead in Wolf Trap and his ragtag pack. He misses the simplicity of sitting behind a monitor and telling others what to do - putting others in his current shoes. He even misses the abusive and unhealthy intake of coffee.

The imagery is vivid but he barely remembers how it all felt, put through the shredder as he’s been. Memory is all he has, and that too feels unreliable right now. Slippery as a snake. Smoke and mirrors, a life fabricated for the sake of conning himself into normalcy.

Will turns around at the sound of muted footsteps.

“You’re alive,” are the first words to leave Abigail’s mouth, neither relieved nor upset. A simple statement like the kind she always makes when she’s unsure about how to break the ice. 

She crosses her arms over her chest and she looks older. Her long hair falls over her shoulders in gentle twirls, her make up is darker than she would normally wear. And her outfit is very, distinctively, Margot.

“Looks like I am,” he says, flexing his fingers by his side. His face tries to smile, but an aching hollowness tugs at his guts. There is nothing to guarantee him that Abigail is actually here, that she isn’t one fabrication of many.

“It also looks like you need a vacation.”

“A very long one. Somewhere without snow, maybe.”

“Marissa and I were gonna take a cruise to the Caribbean.” She tightens her arms around her, the sourness in her tone reflecting on her face. “You could probably use it more than us. Is that your blood?”

Will shakes his head. Here he’d thought he’d gotten rid of all of it.

“It was only a matter of time until I got flung into something like this,” she says, lifting a shoulder to shrug. “Dad always said so. He said that it didn’t matter how much he tried to protect me, that his faults would eventually come knocking on the door.”

“Abigail.”

“Apparently, this world made sure that it would happen one way or another.”

Guilt gnaws at him. The understanding that he’s at fault for even more of her pain now than he was back then leaving a sour footnote in their story. 

“This doesn’t define you,” he says, because he knows. He’s seen the rancor that bubbled up within her when Garrett hadn’t returned from the assignment. “None of this is your fault.”

“It’s not anyone’s.” Abigail loosens her arms, looking off towards the glass panels. Below, a sea of people move in waves. “Yet here we are. End of the world as we know it.” She stops for a moment, the corner of her mouth twisting upward. “I can’t believe that isn’t an exaggeration.”

Will’s laugh is a soft and genuine thing, one that invites her own smile to broaden. “And this isn’t the weirdest fiasco I’ve come across this past year.”

Abigail crosses the few feet between them and hugs Will, arms strong and frame steady. 

This hasn’t broken her. Instead, it’s left her standing taller and at the ready. She has been a victim and a survivor, and now she is a fighter. All intricate phases that have made Abigail Hobbs who she is, neither label taking away from the other. Growing and evolving like the rest of them, she stands like an individual who has walked through the fire and emerged with thicker skin and an untouched heart.

“I’m glad you’re in one piece, even if you look like hell,” she says, pulling away and lightly patting his arm.

Will nods his head, makes a show of taking in the space around him when emotions threaten to choke him. “You look like the opposite of hell.”

“Margot’s been extra nice, as opposed to her creep of a sibling.” Abigail turns away from him to look over the top of a table that stands mid-room. She touches a finger to it and frowns, before looking towards the room Margot had disappeared into. “But I’ll fill you in on all that later.”

The screen that projects along the tabletop show them a map of the compound, blue dots outside of buildings slowly circling them, stopping, and then returning to their point of origin. Curious, Will taps the surface. When he finds that he’s able to zoom in on certain structures, he selects and expands the building they’re in.

“It’s how we’ve kept out of Mason’s way.” Abigail leans against the edge of the table. “They’re most likely looking for you, so your plan better work.”

Will continues to tap the screen, this time impatiently. Mason has his men looking for the bombs, but it’s only a matter of time until he realizes that there aren’t any. So far he’s come to a dead stop, unsure of how to proceed or what to do. He’s inside of InRon in every sense of the word, but he has no way of knowing how to pull the proverbial plug.

“You _do_ have a plan, right?”

“Of course I do.”

She opens her mouth to speak, something witty going by the lilt of her lips, but she stops, assessing. “I thought Hannibal would be with you. Is he alive?”

“He was the last time I saw him.”

“Where is he?”

“Somewhere in the compound. Margot thinks Mason will take him to the Pen.”

Her eyes widen at that, the step backwards purely subconscious. “You have to get him out. Now.”

“Hannibal can handle his own.”

“No, you don’t understand.” Abigail’s words waver. “What they did to you is nothing compared to what these people have up there.” At the stiffening of his shoulders, she continues. “One of the orderlies at the old factory told me what they did. I _saw_ part of what they did to you. Don’t you remember?”

He doesn’t. The only thing he can recall is hearing her voice from very far away. “She mentioned lobotomizing.”

“That’s how it starts. Mason won’t stop once he gets you to do what he orders you to.”

Will sucks in a breath once the sting in his palms becomes too sharp to ignore. His nails have bitten into skin, leaving behind tiny white crescents. “He’s under the Agency’s custody,” he tries to reason. Tries to assuage his fear. “Jack won’t let him.”

“I don’t think you understand how persuasive my darling brother can be,” Margot announces when she rejoins them, a pad tucked under her arm. “He has a knack of getting what he wants from who he wants, forcefully, while others watch on.”

The words crawl up Will’s limbs, the sick meaning behind them making his fingers twitch. “I can’t get out of the building,” he says, jerking his chin towards the screen. “It’s surrounded.”

“In which case, it’s your lucky day.”

Margot hands him the pad, and who he sees offers him an ounce of comfort. _“Hey there, champ.”_

“Tell me you’re going to help me out, Bev.”

_“I never really stopped.”_ Beverly gives him a thumbs up, earning her a laugh. _“Blood of the covenant is thicker than the water of the womb. Or, something like that. I think Price got that wrong, maybe.”_

“You’re amazing and I owe you about twice of what I already do.”

_“You sure do, Graham. First, let’s focus on surviving the night.”_

With Margot and Abigail on either side of him, Will nods his head, fairly certain that, if not the night, he’s good for a couple of more hours. “I’m all ears. Let’s knock these crazy sons of bitches down a peg or two.”


	16. The Firewall

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Give 'em hell.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bet y'all weren't expecting such a quick update, yeah? One more chapter to go and that one, too, should be up fairly soon. *showers you all with love*

Deep beneath the light a spark will now ignite  
and you will see me now.  
This is our world now.  
— **Firewall** ; _Les Friction_

 

 

_We’ve established a fifteen minute frame between blackout and boot-up. During this time all systems will be offline, including tracking, locks, backup, and comms. Scramblers have been distributed around the perimeter and that might buy us a couple of extra minutes if I’m able to get them to sync up. If not, fifteen is all you’re getting._

_A tunnel system spreads out under the compound adjacent to the Collider. All main buildings have access, which is what we’ll use to get you to the Pen. Mason knows this and he’ll dispatch men to keep an eye out for you. He knows Margot is assisting you. They’ve been ordered to shoot on sight._

_The room you are currently in is stocked up with enough ammunition to pull you through, most of it experimental. Make sure to stock up on plenty of analog weaponry. I’ll be using the scramblers to disable every other kind equipment that might blow you up while you’re down there._

_In the meantime, I’ll be uploading a virus to InRon’s core. Your job is to manually initiate it once you’re in the Pen. If successful, Operation Ascension will corrupt beyond measure, granting the Agency enough time to storm and seize the compound before any backup programming can be launched._

_Currently, we are locked out and have no visual from within the Pen._

_The rest is up to you, Agent Graham._

_Give ‘em hell._

***

“There is only one point of entry into the Pen via this system. Given we don’t run into any inconveniences once we get there, Abigail and I will flank to the left. There’s an entryway to the laboratories that will lead us into another corridor, this one leading to a safe zone outside of the compound.” Margot changes the gun in her shoulder holster for a revolver, and clips a magazine into her pant pocket. “You keep to the shadows until I can come back and keep Mason entertained long enough for you to do what you have to do.”

“I think the side trip is unnecessary,” Abigail says. She gives neither of them time to respond before picking up a rifle. She puts the butt to her shoulder and takes aim, measuring the length and weight before nodding to herself, satisfied. “I can shoot just fine.”

“This is dangerous,” Will counters, stern but not overbearing. “We both know you can hold your ground, but I’m not risking it. Your mother would have my head.”

“Mom’s already going to have your head if you make it out alive. After she’s had mine.”

In a lighter situation, Will would have laughed. “Stay behind me,” he asks of her. “Don’t make _yourselves_ known until it’s absolutely necessary.”

“You can relax,” Margot says, walking past them and into the main hallway. “I know a thing or two about rejecting invitations to an early grave.”

They follow on her heels, threading through empty offices and hurrying down stairwells. All electronic devices have been left behind in favor of carrying weapons, both concealed and not.

“Eyes on the floor once the power cuts off. The green markers will lead you directly to the Pen. Otherwise, it’s going to be completely pitch black down there.”

The basement is as desolate as the rest of the building, eerie like hospitals are in the dead of night. Will feels much like a ghost, both physically and mentally, by the time they reach the entrance to the tunnels.

The door on the ground is heavy enough to require all three of them to lift, clanking loudly when it falls back. Below, a ladder drops them off in a brightly lit tunnel. It’s larger than he had anticipated, but his relief vanishes once Margot mentions that they do get narrower the further down they go.

“Don’t hesitate to shoot anyone if you have to,” Margot says, mostly for Abigail’s benefit despite speaking in the direction they need to head down. “I can guarantee you they’re not going to hesitate.”

Close to her, Abigail puts a hand to the tunnel wall to feel the vibrations they can hear. “We’ll cover for you until you can get Hannibal out of there,” she says at Will, determination clear. “Just don’t be too slow about it.”

Will nods his gratitude, unsure if the ache in his chest is somehow related to her promise. He tries to ignore the worried look Margot is giving him, reminding him that this is a very bad idea, and fails. It’s getting harder and harder to concentrate on keeping upright.

“Any second now.”

Blackness engulfs them as if summoned by Margot’s words. It takes Will a moment to adjust to the dark and pick up on the faint traces of colored light along the floor.

The clock is now ticking down, loudly, in his head.

They run.

Their footsteps go off like gongs against the concrete. Heels sound like silent gunshots in the back of his head. Will can almost taste the gritty plume of smoke and dust on the back of his tongue, taunting him. Ready to pull him down and suffocate him with fears he will never be able to walk past.

He focuses. Runs faster. Listens to Margot’s instructions on when to turn until they finally come across the green light. Vision is more trustworthy than sound, but even that is difficult to grasp. His brain plays wicked tricks when one moment the green light shines blue, other times yellow.

He wants to shout, but instead reroutes his frustration and his anger. He _needs_ to stay on top of his game and come out on the other side. If he can’t save them all, then at least get Abigail out.

The clock keeps ticking.

“Will! This way.”

Unsure of who says it he nods his head anyway, letting a hand lead him down the correct path.

Tick-tick-tick-tock.

Over and over, louder and louder.

_Too dark, too loud._

_Gunshots near his ear, a fresh wave of warm blood sleeking down his forehead._

_Garrett Jacob Hobbs holds a finger to his pale lips, telling him to stay quiet and to listen. Listen to his breath, to the clock that counts in tune with his heartbeat._

_Beware the Dragon._

Will is blindsided by the blow that follows, slamming the side of his face into a wall.

He’s given no time to react.

A pair of meaty hands grab the front of his jacket, using it to swing him against the opposite side of the tunnel. His back receives the impact this time, as well as the back of his head, making him see flashes of bright light in the darkness.

He reaches out blindly, hands going for a face he knows must be there, searching for eye sockets to sink his thumbs into. Gracelessly scrambling, Will is met with a knee to the stomach.

His assailant takes a step back as he doubles over for air, pain blossoming along every nerve ending and tipping the world on its axis. Will coughs, feels out the wall to lean against and braces himself for the upcoming hit.

It connects with his cheek, but it gives him time to plant a foot against the person’s stomach and shove him back. He moves quick, flinging and landing a punch, before driving his elbow into a nose he’s just left bloody.

The man groans and Will notices that theirs are the only sounds he can recognize.

Granting him no time to panic, the man charges him again, but Will is faster. Training overrides his dread, instinct taking the seat and telling him not to worry about things that are out of his control at that given moment. He readies himself to fight, but wounded as he is, he tries to find wider ground.

Will sidesteps when the man gets to close and darts down the tunnel, uncaring of light colors and directions. The ones at his feet shine red, anyway. He’s lost, but he needs to put distance between him and his attacker.

Hurriedly, he reaches for the knife on his wrist. A gunshot in here would only serve to disorient him further.

More and more footsteps close in around him, thundurus. He no longer cares if they’re real or not. He needs to get out to the surface, to gather his bearings and breathe, to feel _alive_.

_Your name is Will Graham. You’re in Meyrin, Switzerland._

It’s too dark to check the time, but he must be within the fifteen minute window.

The burst of air is like a balm against the hot skin of his face, breaking his stride. He regains it quick enough to adjust his heading, following the growing wave of noise that must be coming from the surface.

Footsteps come closer still but he’s already there, the cool night air cutting against his bruises and filling his lungs with sweet relief.

Will jumps up onto the ladder and climbs as quickly as he can, mindful of those chasing him. He rolls onto the concrete floor and unholsters his gun, no qualms in using it now that he’s in open air.

Eerie silence settles around him as opposed to the roaring that had swayed him upon entering the office building. It’s too dark to see, but the moonlight is enough to cast shadows over the crowds of people that stand along the perimeter, stock still and devoid of life. Mindless robots, fleshy shells that have been turned off by a very literal switch.

The feeling is a visceral one. Riots aside, the world has begun its descent into the end in the form of a whimper. Quietly, emptily. No catastrophe. Just the simple giving up of humanity.

Standing in the field, Will is faced with a new world that is devoid of violence, hatred, murder, and all things vile. A new world that has no mercy, no compassion, no empathy, nor sympathy. A void that is senseless, a rock meaningless without the opposing sides of the spectrum.

This is the world Mason Verger has the power to dictate out of childish delight.

An explosion of light startles Will into action, forcing him back before grasping that it was no explosion at all, and the loud noise isn’t just in his head. He looks up, under the searchlight and helicopter, flinching when a voice too high for a bullhorn comes through.

“And here’s the problematic little piggy.”

Will doesn’t stay still long enough to watch Mason, the tell-tale sound of machine guns going off sending him into a sprint. He dodges behind monolith structures and fountains, using the darkness to his advantage, but fifteen minutes can only last so long.

He curses when the generators kick on, illuminating the compound and nearly blinding him in the process. The sound from the perimeter grows gradually, from confused inquiries to full-out enraged blabbering that chills his bones by how inhuman they sound.

Another volley and Will goes for the only opening he spots.

He makes for the electrical energy grid, paying little heed to the warning signs that try to stop him. He goes from stairs to pipes, climbing his way up and around to the core, where Mason will either shoot and blow out the compound, or come down and even the playing field.

Predictably, the shooting stops, but the helicopter hovers well above.

The respite is welcome, however brief, and he takes the several seconds he’s been given to asses the damage. Nothing fatal for the exception of the virus currently cooking his brain, but his wrist hurts enough to make him flinch when he tries to move it. He passes the gun to his left hand, which hurts less, but his aim won’t be as efficient. All he needs is one good shot at Mason, and a high hope that Margot, alive and lucid, is able to take command long enough to shut InRon down.

Under him, the grid rattles. The hum of electricity and its proximity charges the fabric of his clothes, stands his hairs on end.

Heavy footfalls come down and he watches, through wiring and steel, as Mason takes his time making his way down. He has a gun, but so does Will. The shot, however, isn’t clear without the risk of ricochet.

“Mr. Graham, you are one pain in the ass, let me tell you. Almost as big as your boyfriend. And my sister. But Margot, she’s, uh, she’s a little troubled in the nogging. Not much to be done there. Still family, still someone I _have_ to look after.”

The butt of his gun hits the piping repeatedly, pointing out the closing distance between them.

“What I don’t get is what your beef is with my family.” A rush of shoes over staircase before they stop, and he sounds so much closer now. “I mean, sure, we poked at your head a bit. You’re hardly the first. This whole ascension thing would be a lot easier if you just… go with the flow.”

Mason comes into Will’s line of sight, but he remains safely on the other side of the railing. He leans against it, regarding the live wiring with amusement. “I am angry that all shocking revelations are already out there. They would have done for some electrifying good times, don’t you think?”

Elbow on the railing, Mason waves the gun around before pointing it at Will in a loose grip. “We can do this all night, pretty boy. Dr. Lecter wouldn’t mind. He’s a funny doctor. A weird one. I’ve never met a con-man slash psychiatrist who eats people before, so I am practically delighted by his existence.”

By the time the gun goes off, Will is already snaking his way up. He moves quickly, mindful not to lose his footing and careful not to touch anything that isn’t grounded. Mason keeps pace with him running up, but is slowed by the winding inclination of the stairs.

Will shakes off the image of blood wetting his fingers, making his hands slip more than once. It takes him a while to realize that it’s raindrops that are soaking him. _Of course it’s raining_ , because nothing can ever be easy for Will Graham.

Various shots ring up but not as much as someone with a complete disregard to danger would. Mason is perfectly aware of the predicament and is also keeping it safe, simply waiting for Will to miscalculate or, better yet, fall to his death.

“Poetry! If you’re to dangle over the wiring. You’d be practically bacon.” The statement is followed by a laugh. “There’s no need to worry if you do, though. I know people who could do wonders with your fried bits. Maybe Dr. Lecter and I could share you for dinner.”

“He’s not much for sharing,” Will grits out, coming to terms with the fact that he’s reached as far as he can go.

“Maybe, maybe not. That can be adjusted.” Still making his way up to Will, Mason whistles. “But you know who’s really good at sharing? Little Miss Hobbs. It does take a bit of heavy _convincing_ but once she’s in the zone, oh, let me tell you a _thing_ , Mr. Graham.”

Will flings himself over the railing and onto the walkway, stands at the very top of the stairs in wait. “I underestimated a pig’s ability to talk so much shit, Mason. Do you kiss your father with that mouth?”

Mason stops, eyes coming alight behind his glasses as he laughs, hands patting the top of his legs. “Here we go! Daddy Willy, being protective over his baby girl. And here people are calling _me_ a creep.”

Refusing to rise up to the bait, Will keeps his distance. He cocks the gun that hangs by his side, ready to use if the situation calls for it. Will keeps Mason’s attention on him, on the falling rain, and on the gun. “Don’t you ever get sick of your own voice?”

“Not really, no.”

Shadows move behind Mason, silent against the rumble of faraway thunder and the rising and falling of groans below. Will can feel the electricity along his body, the anticipation to react accordingly when it needs to be done.

“In that case, let me hear you one more time,” Will says, lifting the gun just as Mason reacts, a second too late, to do the same. “This time with feeling.”

Torn between pulling the trigger and looking behind him, Mason gawks, movement delayed enough for Abigail to drive the butt of her rifle into the man’s face. He stumbles and Will surges forward, balancing him long enough for Abigail give the nod. No room for hesitation, just survival.

Together, they topple him over the edge of the railing.

The suspension of time doesn’t feel unreal as Will watches him fall. He doesn’t look him in the eye as he does, only lingers long enough to know, to see Mason collide with the exposed tubing, impaled on steel coils before the charge sets off.

Will flinches away from the railing, shielding Abigail when sparks fly in all directions. The noise becomes deafening as it crackles and snaps, the power surging and making the steel below their feet vibrate with static charge.

“Go,” Will says, grabbing her by the arm and pushing her down the stairs in front of them. “Go!”

It’s a long way down and electricity pulses, the compound’s lights surging powerfully enough to be heard.

Abigail slips on a platform but quickly catches her footing, taking the stairs two at a time and swinging herself down onto the next flight. 

By now it’s difficult to discern lightning from electrical bursts, but the smell of sizzling skin is unmistakable.

Margot stands at the bottom, a hand extended for Abigail to take so that she won’t slip and fall along those last couple of steps.

Under Will’s feet is concrete, but puddles of rainwater make the area no more safer than the grid. “Get out of here, go,” he says, touching a hand to Abigail’s shoulder and keeping his eyes on Margot. “There’s a car north side of the compound. The keys are in the glove compartment.”

“What about you, Graham?”

“I’ve still got unfinished business.”

“We’ll wait.”

Will shakes his head, bodily pushing them away from live grid. “Mason’s dead and you need to find a way to reel in the corporation.” The look that momentarily crosses Margot’s face is a haunted one, and the way Abigail reaches for her to comfort does not go unnoticed. “We’re still not done and we need you alive, Margot.”

Long hair plastered to her face and makeup running, she’s but a mere reflection of the woman he first met. But she nods, her fear set aside in a moment of determination worth admiring. “This entire sector of the compound is going up,” she warns, already walking away. “I suggest you hurry and find him.” As if to underline her statement, the sound of popping comes from high in the grid.

“You two better make it out,” Abigail warns, eyes wide and smile shaky. “I’ll give you both a hug if you do.”

Will salutes and doesn’t waste another minute, heading off in the direction of the Pen.

He goes with the belief that both women will make it out in time and unharmed, even if he doesn’t. The least thing he can do now is make certain that he and Hannibal go out alone in turn.

***

Reaching the Pen is considerably easier when the compound plummets into complete chaos, every person for themselves as people drop left and right in piles of writhing masses shouting bloody murder to the stormy heavens. The sound they make is more disturbing than the sight itself, the garbled chokes and confused cries of people unsure of where they are or why. Questions of why it hurts so much will haunt him, because even after months he still recalls the acute agony of his mind being so brutally violated.

With guards having deserted their stations, Will makes his way through mazes of machinery and suspended catwalks in near darkness. The power surges increasing frequency and the distinct smell of burning dances around his nose not in the form of a memory, but a current ordeal occurring just outside the reinforced walls.

He isn’t sure how far the Collider is, if it’s on the same sector as the grid, but he sincerely hopes not. On that last thread of hope he clings to, Will begs for one more opportunity. He doesn’t want to go the way he thought he would in Shanghai.

Will follows the distant sound of people that might only be just one person, their voice echoing in the massive and empty rooms of the building. He tries to run towards it, and maybe he does, but his legs aren’t as cooperative as the rest of his faculties. Although he isn’t entirely functional at the current moment.

Spatial cognition is near nonexistent when he reaches for railings that aren’t there, steps closer than he expects, and rooms smaller than possible. Will latches onto the anger he feels towards himself, towards Mason, InRon, and even Hannibal to keep him going. There is no way of measuring time, of guessing whether or not Abigail has made it out safe at this time. It’s hopeless, terrifying, but not as such as the thing that stands before him, hunched on all fours.

Muscles react before his thoughts do, hand going for the gun on his hip.

The slash against his left cheek is cold and stinging, throwing him into a moment of deeper confusion when he tries to rationalize the odds of a wild animal this size in the compound. Nearly his height when it stands on its hind legs, but the sounds its bones make are all wrong.

Not bones, Will decides. Steel.

The hiss of hydraulics becomes clearer when adrenaline spikes, when the previously dwindled urgency comes back full force to remind him that not only does he need to get out, he needs to _fight_ his way out. Here stands an animal, between him and his survival, and it’s either him or the other.

Will loses his train of thought, feeling himself physically step aside and _watch_ as he moves with a violent grace akin to the beast with the bone suit in front of him. He circles the room as he watches the gun get cast aside in favor of nothing but his fists, of real bone as opposed to the fabricated ones that try to tear him down. Guns lack intimacy after all, and he did announce that this had become personal.

Uprooted from his home and the safety of his isolation. Pulled away from his pack and cast into a game of light and shadow. Skin ripped off, regrown, only to be flayed. Shot, stabbed, electrocuted, abused. _He can take it._ Will has always been able to take it, albeit poorly. The nightmares he can suffer through, drink away and hide them under his bed. The pain and anxiety and paranoia he can tame, because those are his own monsters.

But these people took Abigail, and now they have Hannibal. And maybe it’s just his empathy that allows him to mimic Hannibal’s nature, but Will feels a very deep and very righteous sense of possession. If the place goes up, then let it. Will would be damned if he doesn’t give Hannibal a well-deserved punch for the shit he’s put him through before it does.

Will sidesteps when the creature charges him. The suit is too heavy to let him maneuver as quick as Will, leaving its back vulnerable. Without an ounce of sympathy, he pulls the knife from his wrist and plunges it into its back, causing the animal to stumble, but not fall. Not yet.

It rounds on him but Will is ready, knees bent and hands out, ready to tackle at the next charge. He can see the force behind the snap of its jaw, ancient yet sturdy, and it should worry him. One mistake, the smallest of miscalculations and those teeth can very well rip out his throat in a quick second.

Will welcomes it.

Will welcomes _him_ , he then chooses, because lying on his back with this animal on top of him, he can see right through the mask. Fair features, average, young, and painfully human under the fabricated body. The ferocity of the animal bleeds out when Will pushes a hand under the headpiece and grabs his throat, nearly crushing his windpipe.

The slight confusion is enough to grant him the upper hand and Will flips them, straddling the man and feeling nothing but sweet relief when he drive his fist home, through teeth and bone. The first satisfying crunch is met with the spurt of something hot and thick against his fist, either blood or hydraulic fuel, he can’t tell in the dark room.

His hand snags on the way out but he doesn’t let that deter him, putting his weight into the next blow, and then the next, and the next. Each hit pulls back a mask, each as sickening as the last. Under him he doesn’t see the young man but Mason Verger, killed before he had the pleasure of drawing his reckoning. He sees Tobias Budge, Garret Jacob Hobbs, the nameless faces of Shanghai, a black creature that is both humanoid and not, and lastly he sees Hannibal.

Hannibal who looks up at him in rapture, with such love that it sickens Will to be on the receiving end of it. It angers him as much as he delights in it, that this monstrous human being can possibly feel as deeply for him. Hannibal shouldn’t be able to feel much of anything, doesn’t deserve to feel or be loved in the way that Will doesn’t deserve it. But here they are. Here Will is, driving his fist over and over again into his face, rejoicing in the blood and give of bone. Standing in power where he’s cowered for too long. No more hiding.

Will finally stops when the ground beneath his knees vibrates intensely enough to cut through his haze, but not enough to get him moving yet. It feels unfinished. The want to reach through the splintered mask and sink his fingers through pulpy flesh, broken bone and hot blood is overwhelming. He needs to delight in the reality that right here and now _he_ is the apex predator, and not even steel can break him.

Flickering light fixtures illuminate his carnage, split knuckles and bloodied hands.

He looks up and around, taking in his surroundings for the first time and realizes that he isn’t alone.

Hannibal is across the room naked, chained, and prostrated. He struggles to keep his head up but it lulls every so often, the moment stretching out until Will trusts his body enough to not betray him when he tries to stand.

His footsteps are quiet even when he walks beside his own image, and it’s this image that looks Hannibal over and asses the damage. The one that tips Hannibal’s chin up to inspect his face and asks if he’s alright despite the humiliating state.

“You are here, Will,” and the words sound as if filtered through water. “You are _here_.”

Will blinks and finds himself kneeling, his second knife cutting away the rope that keeps Hannibal up. There are puddles of blood around his knees, and bile chokes him when he realizes what it is that Mason has done. “Can you walk? We have to leave. Right now.”

Hannibal doesn’t answer, just looks him with a disturbingly blank stare.

“Hannibal?”

“Whatever it is you think you’re saying,” he begins, stopping to catch his breath, “you’re not saying it.”

Rope cut clean, Hannibal collapses onto sitting on his side. The gashes along his kneecaps are deep, but not deep enough to keep him from moving. “What are you talking about?” Hannibal meet his eyes then, and the pain that shines so blatantly in them squeezes at Will’s chest. “I don’t understand what you mean.”

Hannibal’s hand comes up to his forehead, and it burns cold. “You have a fever. Do you know where you are?”

As irrational and illogical as it sounds, Will believes him. He nods his head, hoping that he’s still in control of at least that much. He can feel his eyes sting, the horrible truth beginning to sink in.

Words proving useless, Will stands up and hoists Hannibal with him. His movements are sluggish, as if he’s just shaking off the effects of a drug. “You can explain it all later,” Hannibal says, draping an arm around Will’s shoulders and limping by his side. “Right now, I need you to remain with me, Will. Understood? You may feel the need to hide, but you cannot afford to disassociate any further.”

Nodding his head, Will begins the slow progress towards the exist.

The smells get worse as the sounds grow louder.

He clings to Hannibal’s side, pulling him close as he hauls their shared weight across the Pen, past dark hallways and clacking bridges that threaten to give out under the vibrations.

Hannibal talks to him. He discusses nonsensical things, knowing that Will is far beyond able to make sense out of the simplest of subjects. He hums tunes. He asks Will to physically guide them in the direction of safety if he can’t tell him where, and he does.

Will swallows down his terror and the crippling understanding that his words aren’t working, that he’s crossed a line both physically and mentally. He doesn’t let disappointment get to him, when Hannibal had promised just days ago that he would cure Will’s illness. With no more fight in him, he focuses instead on getting them out.

Heat scorches his back, burning his clothes. Electricity crackles along his skin. But it’s cold. So, so, cold and there’s only so much he can do, so much will-power he can muster to carry on. He is human, after all, and he understands that he’s been pushed far beyond the breaking point.

Will stumbles and the hold changes until it’s Hannibal that holds him up, leading him away from the crumbling buildings and the dust. Away from the death he’s caused, the violence he danced with, and the darkness that lurks deep inside of himself.

Both beaten and bruised, it’s Hannibal who carries him the rest of the way. Beyond the end, and towards safety.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> SO, HOW ABOUT THIS LATEST EPISODE?


	17. The End

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The chicken soup is, unsurprisingly, delicious.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here it is at long last. I'm gonna go ahead and take a quick moment to thank (shower with love, invite to dinner, etc etc) all of you who have stopped by, read, and left some love along the way. You have been a great crowd and I hope to some day entertain you again! ♥

_“How long?”_

_“A couple of more days, until he’s ready.”_

_“Can he hear me? If I read him something, will he know?”_

_“There is no harm in trying.”_

***

Will wakes to heavy limbs and a head which feels stuffed with cotton. It’s not an uncomfortable sensation, not at all, even if it’s one that should set him on edge. His tongue is very relaxed in his mouth, and the thought is so strange it makes him twitch. He doesn’t want to open his eyes and dispel the bone-deep calm that tingles from his scalp to the tip of his fingers and toes.

Wherever he is, it’s quiet but for a faint beeping somewhere off to his side. Cold, but his space is pleasantly warm. Safe, relaxed, and whatever he’s currently on, he’d like a lifetime supply of it delivered to his doorstep as quickly as possible.

“Welcome to the world of the living,” says Hannibal, so softly, before the familiar press of a warm mouth touches his forehead. “It’s time for you to attempt sitting up. Careful not to disrupt the drip.”

Too many words at once which Will meets with a half-hearted hum, intending to do nothing of the sort. It’s been way too long since he’s felt this blissed out.

To his dismay, the heavy warmth that laid splayed over his chest is pulled down, making him shiver in its wake. “You may go back to sleep in a little while, but first I need to examine the range of your current cognitive capabilities.”

Will hums again, a blossom of heat curling gently within his rib cage at the sound of Hannibal’s voice. “I want my dogs,” he says. “Some whiskey, and a booty call. Cognitive enough for you?”

Hannibal’s laughter melts Will into the bed for very specific reasons. “At the moment, all I can offer is chicken soup.”

“Not even head?”

“You would taste of chemicals.”

“A handjob.”

“Will.”

“I don’t know what you hooked me up with, but I feel really good right now, and really randy.”

Another laugh, this one accompanied by a hand sweeping back the hair from his forehead. The touch lingers on his cheek, a thumb resting over his bottom lip before falling away. “You need to be eased back into action. Elevating your heart rate considerably might cause more harm than good.”

“Then lay down next to me and let me feel you,” Will says, tongue looser than his limbs and lighter than his gut. “I need to know that you’re actually alive and not a figment of my imagination.”

As requested, the mattress underneath him dips and creaks, until a solid wall of heat plants itself by his side. The cadence of Hannibal’s breath, easy and deep, seeps through the spaces between Will’s bones. The caress of fabric against his arm is like a livewire and suddenly Will is lifting it, waiting for Hannibal to shift again until a heavy head is resting over his chest.

Will stays on his back as Hannibal curls his body into his side like Buster would do on stormy nights, and the affiliation makes him snort into Hannibal’s hair. “We’re alive,” he says, a touch of awe lacing his words. “We’re _alive_.”

“And well on the way to recovery. You’re far more coherent than I thought you would be, and it’s like a load has been lifted from my shoulders.”

“Not exactly easy to get rid of, am I?”

“I would never wish for such a thing, Will. Not now that I finally have you.”

“Sap.”

“Says the one who requested cuddling.”

“This is definitely cuddling,” Will says, running his fingers through Hannibal’s hair and pawing at his scalp until the man practically purrs under his touch. “How did we go from barely speaking to each other, to fucking, to canoodling?”

“There are mysteries which are better left unsolved.”

“Like how I got to this bed? I have a feeling we’re not in Switzerland anymore.”

They’re not in Switzerland because something has happened, something important, but Will looses the battle against sleep before he can get his answer.

***

The chicken soup is, unsurprisingly, delicious.

They eat in silence, sitting across from each other on the small table Hannibal has brought into Will’s room. 

The area itself is spacious and homely, even with the medical equipment spread across the room. It’s difficult to roll the IV drip around with him given how plush the carpet is. It does wonders on his feet, though.

The past couple of days have gone by agonizingly slow with Will relearning how to use his body. Sitting down, standing up, and walking about have all been excruciatingly difficult tasks to achieve. Little by little his muscles become reacquainted with the concept of movement, worming life back into his joints and bones.

The quiet hides something dark, and no matter how hard he pushes, no direct answer is ever given.

Hannibal won’t tell him how he got the bruises on his knuckles, or how he managed to get them out of the compound. They do tell him what happened to Mason Verger, to InRon Dynamics, and by them Will means Hannibal and _Abigail_. Abigail, whom he had mourned still weeks ago. He had nearly been moved to tears when he woke up to see her sitting by the bedside.

“Will I ever get anything back?” he asks once he finishes his meal, pushing the bowl away and reaching for his glass of water. “Is it even remotely possible?”

Putting down his spoon to focus his attention, Hannibal considers him for along moment. “It would come as no surprise if it did,” he says, “be it a consequence of trauma or a side effect of the encephalitis. You have shown an uncanny ability to recall events in the past.” He serves himself a glass of wine but doesn’t drink it, choosing instead to spin the glass over the table. “For now, it is best to focus on your physical recovery. A healthy mind needs a strong body.”

“I did something and none of you will tell me what it is.” He laughs mirthlessly, running a hand over his face. The scene reminds him a breakfast had long ago where they had spoken of snakes and mongooses. “Recovery is going to be a bitch if I keep beating myself over it.”

“If you wish to remember, you will remember.” In a moment of uncharacteristic vulnerability, Hannibal looks out the window by their table at nothing in particular. Will can almost see the cogs in his head turning.

“Did I hurt her? Or, you?” The question is heavy on his tongue, making dread poison the air. Hannibal had said his scars had been inflicted by Mason and his goons, but that doesn’t feel completely true. “I need to know.”

“I can tell you that regardless of the events that have transpired, Abigail and I are here because you refused to surrender,” Hannibal says, the lilt of his voice barely detectable but there. He shifts forward, his arm moving over the table until it’s close enough for Will to touch.

He does touch it, letting his fingertips rest over the back of Hannibal’s hand.

“I would very much like for us to enjoy this moment of peace,” he continues. “Heaven knows we need it and you deserve it.”

Will looks at him for a long moment. While sincerity and tenderness aren’t strangers to Hannibal, there is something so poignant by the near supplication in his tone. Adoration, almost. Fear of losing him.

To see such a proud and vain creature be brought down to this, stripped bare and exposed with so much humanity, it leaves Will breathless.

“Okay,” he says, squeezing their fingers together and refusing to pull away yet. “Fine. You can at least tell me why Bev was here.”

***

Will learns that they’re staying in Portugal on an estate owned by the Vergers. Margot had moved mountains to keep the property under her belt when InRon fell to the hounds, Project Ascension flushed as a multi-trillion dollar failure. This is her sole home now, the rest ripped away and donated to various religious organizations after her brother’s passing.

He’s barely seen her over the course of the last month he’s been conscious enough to make sense of the world around him, but he’s aware that it was she who filed for the equipment needed to nurse him back to full-health. The rest fell on Hannibal’s capable hands.

Abigail moves around like a ghost, preferring to spend time out in the garden and being chased by wicked looking geese. At times Will sees Hannibal join her with a tray of tea and cookies that usually go ignored in favor of her clinging to him, crying into his shoulder and stuttering words Will can’t hear.

Hannibal who moves about like royalty despite waiting on him hand and foot. He, too, has his moments of naked weakness. Mostly when the lights are off and he joins Will in bed. He doesn’t speak, makes no sound at all, but Will can feel him shivering under the sheets.

Time, Will tells himself. All they need is time.

He often dreams of lightning and the sound of snapping bones.

***

“You two are officially dead,” Margot announces, dropping a stack of papers and a manila folder onto the table in the foyer. “The story, as it goes for the Agency, states that an unexplained critical meltdown at the InRon Dynamics Center at CERN claimed the lives of two government agents and several civilians. At this moment, Miss Abigail Hobbs is still missing. Project Ascension has been deemed classified, the riots were signed off as a political uprising, and the shocking amount of deaths that are in no way tied into these riots were caused by a new virus the CDC is trying to identify.” She shrugs her lower lip. “Who’s in charge or creating these cover-ups? They ought to do a better job.”

“That would be Prurnell,” Will says, putting his laptop to the side.

“Ms. Katz can sure keep a secret. Here I thought she’d rat you out to Crawford.”

“Best of the best. Keeping secrets is her job.” He leans so that the sliver of afternoon sun that comes in through the bay windows falls over him. The days are beginning to warm. “What about Abigail?”

“Hannibal suggests I take her back to Minnesota.”

“What are going to tell her mother? The Agency will want answers.”

“The truth, as far as I can. Mason kidnapped her out of spite. You waddled into his business and he retaliated. I kept her under my wing until she felt that it was safe to go back home.” Margot crosses the room, her heels echoing in the large expanse of it, to sit by his side on the settee. “Abigail needs a home right now. Somewhere to plant her roots.”

Will nods in agreement, because a life on the run is no life at all. At least not for a young woman who still has an entire world of choices ahead of her. He and Hannibal no longer need any sort of legal validation in whatever they choose to do from now on, but Abigail deserves to have these options available.

She needs normalcy.

“I’ll keep an eye on her,” she says. “Officially. Plus, she needs more female role models in her life.”

“Just don’t take her out drinking with Bev.” Will gives a crooked smile while steepling his fingers together. “She can get a little wild. Abigail won’t appreciate being the designated driver.”

Margot returns the smile, although discreetly. “And you two? Any plans for the immediate future?”

“Are you kicking us out?”

“Absolutely.”

This time he does laugh, genuinely. “Hannibal suggested either South America or the Caribbean.”

“He would tan. You’d turn into a lobster.”

“Thanks.” Finding that he’s no longer bothered at being compared to food unsettles him, especially in the context of Hannibal’s palate. “How about your plans?”

Margot bends one knee over the other and leans back, briefly casting a look at the high ceiling where a chandelier glistens in the sunlight. “I’m not sure yet, but I doubt I’d tell you.”

“Fair enough.”

Curiosity draws him to the correspondence she brought in, laying on a messy stack beside a glass clock and a vase of flowers that used to be by his bedside. The folder carries the Agency’s logo like a brand, black ink sharp and clear over the glossy material.

He vaguely leafs through the contents and is surprised to find a lack of information on him and Hannibal. Instead, all that glances up at him are reports that date back a week.

A new case. A crime ring with American affiliates spreading out through the South Pacific. The only image in the file is a blown up Chinese character. Behind it, the word _dragon_ written in messy cursive.

Will understands the reason why the parcel ended up right in his hands, sent to the Verger estate when Margot has no ties to the Agency. He isn’t buying for a second that Jack Crawford believes them dead.

The lure is as enticing as he would expect, whispering neat seductions at the prospect of stepping outside of his skin again. To see once more. To be needed.

Companies like InRon Dynamics, rings like the Shanghai Syndicate, those will continue to exist and thrive until long after Will has taken to his grave. They will not stop even when he does. There will be others to succeed him, and Jack has to understand that they will have to come sooner rather than later.

The Agency has control of him no longer.

Without vacillation, Will slips the report back into the folder and throws it in the bin.

***

When Abigail leaves, it isn’t a difficult goodbye.

Apparently Dr. Bloom has custody of his dogs, and Abigail will wrestle for it. Maybe even ship them out once he and Hannibal are settled.

Permission is given to sell the house on Wolf Trap, but she rejects the idea by stating that she might need a place to escape to every once in a while. Plus, the place is isolated enough if Will ever wants to come back for a few days.

They part ways with a ‘see you soon’, because he knows without a doubt that they will.

***

That same night, Will traces the scars on Hannibal’s back with his lips. For each one Hannibal tells him the events that put it there, and Will clings to him when he reaches a deep, curved cut at the bottom of his back.

“I don’t remember doing that. I don’t remember a lot of things that happened that night,” he whispers against his skin, nose and forehead pressed to it. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry I did that.”

“Don’t be,” Hannibal tells him, his words warmer than the breeze that crawls through the open windows. “Of all the scars I have, you’ve given me the best one.”

“That’s fucked up.”

“Consider it an act of reciprocity. We’ve imparted a fair share of harm upon the other, the likes of which have only served in bringing us closer together.”

“You tended to me for weeks,” Will continues to whisper, kissing the base of Hannibal’s spine. “Who tended to you?”

Hannibal doesn’t immediately answer, turning around on the bed and pushing Will down onto the pillows. “I am perfectly capable of seeing to my own wounds. Abigail helped with the ones hardest to reach.”

Lips descend onto the column of Will’s neck, hot and wet. Teeth scrape at his adam’s apple, seeping pleasure down his spine.

“Hannibal?”

“Yes, Will?”

“Do you love me?” He surprises even himself, but he’s quick to put a finger to Hannibal’s mouth to keep him from answering. “Wrong question.” At the lift of his eyebrows, Will tries again. “Are you _in_ love with me?”

Moonlight catches in Hannibal’s eyes, reflecting tiny pinpricks of light against their dark depths. He waits to answer until the finger falls away. “To the best of my knowledge, yes. I thought that much might be obvious.”

“I wanted to hear it,” Will confesses, moving his hands to Hannibal’s shoulderblades and teasing them downwards to stop at the dip of his back. He then goes to move out from under him but Hannibal is quick to pin him down again. Patient, but expectant.

“Is there something else?” he asks, prompting Will.

Burying deeper into the mattress, Will grins up at him. “A long time ago I thought to myself that I could see me falling in love with you.” He drags his knuckles across the sharp jut of Hannibal’s cheekbone. “I hate that I’m always right.”

“How dreadful.”

“Truly.” Will’s laugh is quiet when Hannibal kisses his chin. “How can this work? How many times are we going to try to kill each other?”

“Not knowing will definitely keep the flame alive.”

“You’re horrible.”

“I’ve learned that I shouldn’t fear loving you. Whether you choose to hunt with me or not, it will be your decision and I will respect that.”

“In the same way I won’t exactly agree with your hunting habits but I will respect that in turn. Because you’re you, and it’s your nature to be a predator, and I can’t change that.” A short silence, and Will sighs. “I don’t _want_ to change that.”

“We’ve each changed the other, in a way.”

“For better and for worse.”

“It’s a shame we’re deceased in the eyes of the system,” Hannibal says around a smile that is pressed to Will’s cheek. “I would have loved to legally bind you to me.”

“Beachside wedding?”

“I would prefer a church.”

“Of course you would.”

Stealing a quick kiss from Hannibal, Will pushes him off and tells him to stay put on the bed.

He gets up and goes for the drawer, taking out the first aid kit he knows is hidden under other personal items. He thinks better of it after a moment, and takes the lubricant with him as well.

Returning to the bed he orders Hannibal to sit down.

“I feel cheated,” Will says, taking the spot behind him and kissing the knobs of his spine. “That I wasn’t given a chance to tend to your wounds.” But he does so now. Even if the cuts have healed, the gashes left behind by strips of leather now thick welts of new skin, stitches long since fallen off, Will tends to him.

He uses the sheet to dry his skin, goes scar by scar, swabbing alcohol before applying the salve.

Hannibal hums with delight, waiting for Will to finish. He doesn’t sit still however. Each caress is accented with a kiss to Hannibal’s shoulder, the scrape of teeth, a huff of hot breath. Will’s hands eventually finish their healing but they don’t stop moving, coming around him to grab his flaccid cock and stroke it until it’s beautifully hard and beading at the tip.

“What is my prognosis, Doctor Graham?”

“You’ll live,” Will rasps against his ear, biting his bottom lip at the soft gasp that escapes him. “But you’re going to need plenty of physical-” The words are cut off by Hannibal’s mouth crashing into his, ungraceful and frantic.

Will laughs, a loud and warm sound that bubbles up from his stomach as Hannibal pushes him back onto the bed and crawls on top. Knees spread wide, he settles between Will’s thighs and slowly, agonizingly slowly, pushes their cocks together. Then, the laughter gives way to deep moans and breathy sighs.

“Are you going to use sex to shut me up from now on?”

“Never,” Hannibal all but groans against his bottom lip before sucking it into his mouth until it’s plump and wet. “Never silence yourself, Will. Never allow me to try.”

Lube ignored and kit kicked onto the floor, they rut furiously against each other, desperate for completion, for the closeness they covet and are unable to get enough of. Will scrambles for purchase along Hannibal’s back, smearing the ointment and not caring. One hand latches onto his hair, bringing his knees up to frame Hannibal’s hips.

It’s more than a little perfect, Will finds. Lying on his back, thighs spread and Hannibal between them, taking him so adoringly. Next time, he would very much like Hannibal inside of him, but for now, this is all he needs. This is all he could ever want for.

“What are your thoughts on Puerto Rico?” Hannibal asks at some point, when their frantic search for release dwindles down to a simmer. “It’s warm all year long.”

Will hums, thoughts too focused on Hannibal to spare a thought for much else. “What would we do there?”

“Anything we want.” A nip at Will’s throat has his hips jerking up for more friction.

“Ask me again in the morning,” Will mumbles, taking their cocks in his hand and jerking them off. “I know they have some pretty nice churches.”

Hannibal goes to laugh but instead chokes back a grunt when Will quickens his pace. “ _Will_.”

“It’s okay, Hannibal. I’ve got you. You can come.”

The words elicit a reaction from Hannibal that startles Will over the edge as well. The look, a gleam in his eye that holds nothing but reverence usually reserved for deities and saints. It’s an experience and a connection more profound in its simplicity as opposed to the colossal events that have brought them here.

And if an orgasm has Will rhapsodizing about the spirituality of their union, sex will never be a problem for him.

Spent and sweaty, neither bothers moving from the bed just yet. They’re perfectly content scooping up to the other, stretching out the moment of peace and quiet that is only interrupted by their hurried breathing.

Will watches as Hannibal surrenders to sleep first, blissed out and unwound. Safe. And even if the memories rest buried in the darkest pits of his still healing mind, Will will cling to the knowledge that, for now, they’re both safe. They both have each other’s back in every shape, way, and form.

He thinks about what they’d do with this new chance at life they’ve taken. He thinks he would like to see Hannibal work as a museum curator again, even if the heat would force him to dress down more often. 

He, on the other hand, might be able to try his hand at writing. Maybe even publish under a pseudonym. After all, everyone loves a good a spy story.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [CUE JAMES BOND THEME SONG]
> 
> The best of luck to everyone about to face the finale tomorrow/Saturday!

**Author's Note:**

> [celestialparadigm@tumblr](http://celestialparadigm.tumblr.com/) || and #SaveHannibal!


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